The Weeping Wraith
by Katharine Faith
Summary: AU, bookmovieverse. A disastrous attack forces the Fellowshippers to follow different paths in order to fulfill the Quest. Beware the very, very tiny chapter... (wince)
1. The Retreat

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter One**

**Author: Katharine the Great**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"   "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…"  --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This story starts on the bank of the river Anduin, after, Frodo and Co. left Lothlórien.  It is the eighth night since their departure from that blessed land, and they have run into a bit of trouble with the orcs closing in from the east bank.  Things, however, are about to get much worse…Also, this is very very very A/U, and somewhat rooted in the movie's portrayal of characters.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!**

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_            Legolas laid down his paddle and took up the bow that he had brought from Lorien.  then he sprang ashore and climbed a few paces up the bank.  Stringing the bow and fitting an arrow he turned, peering back over the River into the darkness.  Across the water there were shrill cries, but nothing could be seen._

_            Frodo looked up at the Elf standing tall above him, as he gazed into the night, seeking a mark to shoot at.  His head was dark, crowned with sharp white stars that glittered in the black pools of the sky behind.  But now rising and sailing up from the South the great clouds advanced, sending out dark outriders into the starry fields.  A sudden dread fell on the Company._

            There was no sound, save for the rustling of the trees overhead.  The orcs across the River had fallen silent.  The River itself slurped and bubbled on its way past the wary travelers, further obscuring any enemy movements.  Aragorn remained seated, but slipped his sword from its sheath and made ready for swift action.  Gimli's hand moved to the hilt of his axe, and Boromir's blade glinted dully in his grip.  The hobbits hunkered down, peering all around them.  All gave nervous glances to the far-away eastern bank from whence the orc-cries and arrows had come.  Several minutes passed, and nothing out of place was witnessed.

            "It is too quiet," Boromir murmured almost inaudibly.

            "Hsst!" Legolas warned under his breath.  Dark as it was, the Elf's hair seemed to shine under the starlight.  His motions were soundless, but Frodo could dimly see him stepping further up onto the bank and turning toward the silent forest.

            Aragorn touched Frodo's arm, indicating that he should be ready to flee by boat or by land if necessary.  Frodo swallowed and tapped Sam, who was startled and barely managed to avoid making an outcry.

            After more long minutes had wafted past, Aragorn made a low hissing sound to collect Legolas' attention.  "What see you, Legolas?" he whispered.

            Legolas had not moved in all that time, but now he turned his head slightly to reply.  "I see and hear nothing, but my heart quails within me as it has not often done before," he said softly.

            Frodo cast a fearful look past the Elf.  "I feel it also," he breathed.

            "What shall we do, then?  Sit here all night and wait for some unknown terror to consume us whole?" Boromir asked in a low tone.

            Before any of the rest could form an answer, Legolas lifted his bow and released an Elven arrow into the heart of the darkness beyond the bank.  "Black Riders!" he cried.  "The Nazgûl are upon us!"

            Even as he spoke, a terrible shriek arose from the forest beyond.  All at once the hooves of the black horses smote the earth, unseen as yet by those in the boats, but the sound was instantly recognized by Frodo.  Aragorn was already shoving off from the bank, holding his sword captive in one hand and wielding the paddle with the other.

            "Come, Legolas, get yourself into the boat so that we may be off!" Gimli called out.

            To Frodo's horror, he saw Legolas' silhouette still standing high on the bank.  "I will remain to slow them if necessary," the Elf replied plainly, without a trace of fear in his voice.  "Go, all of you, and get yourselves and the Ring to safety!"

            By then the boats manned by Aragorn and Boromir were trailing away from the bank.  "Gimli, Legolas, come!" Aragorn cried.  "We must go quickly to avoid the threats from the two banks!"

            The Nazgûl swept through the trees with a chorus of howls, echoing the fading orc-shouts from the opposite bank.  Frodo felt a thrill of horror streak through his veins, for he remembered well the screams of the creatures as they had pursued him and the Ring he bore.  He had nearly died at the point of one of their blades.  Now, somehow, the Black Riders had recovered from the floodwaters at Rivendell, and had found their quarry once again.

            "Legolas, run!" Frodo cried, knowing well that the Riders would soon reach the unwavering Elf.  How he could discern such, he did not know, for it was still very dark.  He knew, too, that Legolas meant to stay where he was and provide a rearguard to cover their escape.

            Gimli shouted something that Frodo could not decipher, but Legolas' reply carried over the River's water without trouble.  "Go, my friend.  I tarry for your sake as well, and if you are safe, then I shall escape."

            The Dwarf cursed loudly, but Aragorn's voice sprang forth and cut off his denial.  "Away from the shore, Master Dwarf, else the Riders will destroy the both of you!"

            "You would not leave Legolas to die!" Frodo gasped.

            "No, Frodo, I would not.  I mean to get Gimli away as Legolas asked, so that he may flee when the rest of us are saved."  Aragorn laid a hand on the hobbit's shoulder.  "Elves are good swimmers, Master Hobbit.  I have no doubt that Legolas means to dive into the River and reach the safety of Gimli's boat when he deems that no one will be within the reach of the Nazgûl when he does so."

            Gimli's keen ears had heard Aragorn's words.  Cursing mightily, he finally shoved the boat away from the shore.  "Cursed and blessed Elf!" he cried.  "Come and reach haven, then, before I regret my seeming cowardice!"

            "I am but a moment after you!" Legolas called faintly, and then his voice was lost to the shrieking and pounding of the black-cloaked Riders.

            It seemed to Frodo that a storm cloud burst forth from the line of trees beyond the bushes at the edge of the bank.  The horses' bridles jangled harshly in the night air, and their riders keened fiercely in unison.  Legolas was at the edge of the water when the Riders charged him, and those in the boats saw with dismay that the Elf could not dive fast enough to escape.  Frodo and the others let out a loud cry as Legolas whirled to meet the attack and then disappeared under the hooves of the black horses upon which the Nazgûl were mounted.  The animals did not pause even for a moment, but skidded to a halt at the edge of the bank, neighing and kicking at the lapping water in a frenzy.

            "Curse you, foul creatures!" Gimli shouted, adding several pungent words in his own language.  From the sounds of the splashing, Frodo guessed that the Dwarf was paddling furiously back towards the bank.

            He heard his own voice joining Aragorn's in a half-commanding, half-beseeching duet.  "Come back, Gimli!  Do not hasten to your death!"

            There came a wild cry then, a voice that rose above the snorting of the horses and the shouting of the Company.  _"Kelo, namárië!__  Kelo!"_

            Frodo recognized the voice of Legolas, crying out in his native tongue and commanding them to flee.  _Namárië, he had said.  __Farewell!  "No!" Frodo shouted, thinking that the Riders must have killed the Elf, who upon seeing his doom had given his companions leave to save themselves.  Frodo frantically scanned the dark shore, which seemed so very far away now, but to his dismay he could see nothing.      _

            Abruptly the Nazgûl ceased their howling.  The horses turned and raced back into the forest, disappearing as swiftly as they had come.  With their departure came the return of the wild orc yells and a rain of arrows from the eastern bank.  The creatures had paused in their assault, apparently unwilling to interrupt the errand of the dreaded Nazgûl, but with the latter's departure the orcs had resumed their own attack.  Gimli was still heading back to the shore where Legolas had disappeared, not heeding the call of Aragorn.

            There came an exclamation from the boat containing Boromir, Merry and Pippin.  "Aragorn, Merry has taken a hit from one of those wretched arrows!" Boromir called out.  "We must get to shelter immediately!"

            "Merry!" came Pippin's faint voice, choked with worry.  "Wake up, lad, don't sleep on me now!"

            "I do not think the Lady would be offended if we returned to Lórien in such straits," Frodo remarked softly.  His tone was remarkably calm.

            Aragorn paused.  "If that is what you wish, then we shall turn back to Lórien," he said.

            "I think we must, Aragorn," Frodo said.  "We cannot stay, and we cannot go on with Merry injured and Legolas missing."

            Without another word, Aragorn grabbed up his paddle and began to stroke the water furiously.  "Boromir, we are going back to Lórien!  Gimli, get away from the bank and follow us!"

            "I shall not leave our Elven friend in the wake of the Riders!" Gimli answered with a roar.

            "We will not leave without you, Gimli," Frodo called out desperately, ducking under the arrows splicing the air above his head.  "Every moment we delay is another moment in which another of us could die!"

            "Legolas told us to go!" Aragorn added.  "The Lady will surely see to it that he is found and rescued, if that is possible now."

            With a bitter, angry roar, Gimli turned his boat and began to slash at the River with his paddle.  "If it were not for the Lady, I would disregard this treacherous command, Aragorn," he snarled loudly amid the dull thuds of the orc-arrows.  "But I have faith that she will help my good friend much more that I could at this moment."

            There was a faint groan from the second boat, and Pippin gasped.  "Merry, Merry, stay here!  Don't sleep yet!"

            "Do you think Legolas is all right, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked hesitantly, in a low voice so that only Frodo could hear.

            "I hope so, Sam."  Frodo gave the disappearing stretch of shore a sorrowed glance.  "I hope so."

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            Fueled by desperation and by increasing anxiety for the plights of Merry and Legolas, those manning the oars paddled up the Anduin until their muscles burned and their sight blurred.  Aragorn was still wary of the shores, and so was reluctant to stop and rest.  He decided that they should rearrange themselves in the boats so that they could rest in shifts and still progress up the River.  He sent Sam over to Boromir's boat so that the hobbit could paddle when Boromir rested, and Frodo would do the same for Aragorn, and so on.  Gimli was determined not to rest until they reached Lórien, for his mind was filled with worry for his lost friend.

            They were three days into their journey back to the Golden Wood, and Frodo and Sam were paddling while the Men rested.  Pippin was tending to Merry as best he could though the wounded hobbit was drifting in and out of a feverish slumber.  Gimli's face was set in hard lines, as he was trying to ignore his weariness.  

            Frodo kept his strokes long and even in order to maximize his speed without overtiring himself before his shift ended. To pass the time, he and Sam sang soft snatches of song from the Shire, and Pippin joined in as well in an attempt to cheer Merry.

            "Mr. Frodo, did you see that?" Sam gasped suddenly.

            Frodo automatically tensed, but did not break his oar-rhythm.  "What is it, Sam?"

            "Over there, on the west bank.  I saw something move really quick-like," Sam replied.

            Gimli, overhearing the conversation, turned his attention to the shore.  He was nearest to the western bank, and so had a better chance of sighting whatever the hobbits were discussing.  "I see nothing, Master Hobbit," the Dwarf said.  "Perhaps it was a bird flying to its nest."

            "It was much bigger than any bird I've ever heard of," Sam answered stoutly.

            "What color was it?" Aragorn asked, rousing from his sleep at the tenseness in the voices around him.  "Was it a Wraith?"

            "No, I don't think so.  There it is again!" Sam cried, nearly dropping his oar in his hurry to point out his phantom.

            Now all saw it, a fleeting touch of white in the trees to the west.  Aragorn drew his sword, wishing with a pang that Legolas and his strong bow were present.  "Oh, for the eyes of an Elf," he murmured, so low that none save Frodo heard.

            "If not a Wraith, then what?" Pippin asked, cradling Merry tightly in his arms.

            As if cued by the conversation, a white horse with gleaming mane and tail stepped out of the trees, appearing from within the darkness like a dream creature.  Seated astride the horse was  a fair-skinned, golden-haired Elf with a bow in one hand.  He looked so like the missing Legolas that Gimli and Frodo gave a start.

            The Elf called out in his own tongue, walking his horse steadily along the bank to keep pace with the boats.  Frodo could not understand what was said, but Aragorn replied in the same language, for he had been reared in the house of the Half-elven Lord Elrond.  He used the name _Legolas a number of times, apparently explaining the reason for the Fellowship's sudden reversal of course._

            After Aragorn had finished speaking, the Elf on the shore nodded once.  "This is distressing news, Elessar," he said, switching to the Westron language.  "So soon into your journey, and already you have troubles enough to drive you back to Lórien.  The Prince of Mirkwood is missing, you say?"

            "Yes, and Meriadoc the hobbit is injured," Aragorn answered.  "I fear he may not survive the journey by boat, Léhulai.  Will you take him to the Lady while we follow by way of the River?"

            Léhulai of Lórien glanced about.  "My companions and I were patrolling the southern borders when we heard the cries of the Nazgûl," he said.  "We came to investigate, and that is how I found you.  But I will break off my search in order to save the hobbit, for you have all been named Elf-friends by the Lady."

            "Thank you!  Oh, thank you so much!" Pippin cried.  "I am afraid for Merry; he is pale and hot to the touch."

            "The Lady will see to him upon my return to Lórien," Léhulai said.  "Bring the boat alongside the shore, and I will collect Meriadoc from the shallows."

            Sam and Boromir (who by this time had come to full wakefulness) carefully paddled over to the western bank, where the Elf dismounted and waded out into the shallow water.  Léhulai reached out and took Merry's limp body from the arms of Boromir, who then drew his sword in case of a Nazgûl attack while they were near the shore.  When Merry was safely atop the horse and held securely by the arms of Léhulai the Elf, Boromir and Sam hastily pushed the boat away from the shallows.

            "Goodbye, Merry," Pippin called anxiously.  "I shall see you in some days, I hope!  Be strong!"

            "I shall make all haste after I have contacted my companions and informed them of my errand," Léhulai said.  "Lórien shall be watching for you when you arrive.  Fare well until then, friends of the Elves!"  With that, the white horse and its fair rider turned and leaped nimbly into the forest, and vanished.

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End of Chapter One!  So, what happened to Legolas?  And is Merry all right?  And what of the orcs and the Nazgûl closing in on the Company?  Please review…my Plotbunny's name is Francine, and she gobbles reviews…


	2. Lothlorien

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Two**

**Author: Katharine the Great**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This is getting even more A/U as it goes on, and is still somewhat rooted in the movie's portrayal of characters.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

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            The Company was exhausted and sorrowful when they sighted the much-missed golden boughs of Lothlórien.  Not even the glittering beauty of the Silverlode River could dispel the gloom that had settled over everyone in the boats.  Gimli moved stiffly, having forgone sleep for six days straight.  Aragorn and Boromir paddled, but neither Frodo nor Sam could even think of slumber.  Pippin, too, was quiet.  Legolas' light heart and steady voice were sorely missed, and even Gimli the Dwarf felt the loss of the chirpy Merry.

            They rounded a bend in the River, and there in slender boats akin to the ones given to the Fellowship was an assemblage of fair-skinned Elves.  Aragorn gave over his paddle to Frodo, then stood up in the boat, which rocked only gently in the still waters.  He waited respectfully for the Elves to speak first.

            A slender, willowy Elf stood in the prow of the nearest boat.  "Greetings, Aragorn son of Arathorn," he said, his smooth tones a strange relief to the travelers' ears.  "And to all of you.  I am Evanen, brother to Haldir.  The Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim are both glad and disturbed at your return, so near to your departure!"  The Elf gave them a welcoming smile that was tempered by the concern in his gray eyes, and in that moment the members of the Fellowship could see some of the resemblance between this Elf and Haldir, who had been their guide when they had first reached Lorien.  "Come," Evanen said, "Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel have commanded that you be allowed to rest and eat before you speak with them."

            Aragorn bowed.  "Thank you, Evanen of Lórien, for your kind words—they are surely a relief to us all, after these days of trial!  But I must speak briefly with the Lord and Lady ere I rest.  I would not ask such except that the life of Legolas of Mirkwood may hang in the balance."

            Evanen's fair face was shadowed with worry.  "Yes, Léhulai told us as much before he returned to the southern border.  I will bring you alone to the Lord and Lady, but the others must first ease their burdens for the night."

            Pippin was unable to restrain himself any longer.  "May we go to see Merry?  Is he all right?" the hobbit asked hurriedly.

            The Elf's expression turned to one of bemused compassion.  "Yes, Master Hobbit, Meriadoc is well.  He has done nothing but chatter on about the Shire and all of you since Lady Galadriel healed him of his wound." 

            "That sounds like Merry!" Frodo laughed, despite his weariness.

            "My companions will lead you to him," Evanen said, "whilst I and Aragorn go to the Lord and Lady.  Come, all of you.  We have set up a small camp at Egladil, not far from here, and there you will see Merry."  The Elf's bright eyes moved to Aragorn.  "Are you certain that you will not rest a little before we journey to Caras Galadhon?" he asked.  "The weight of trouble is heavy upon you, it seems, and sleep will lighten your load."

            "Thank you, Evanen, but I cannot rest while one of our number remains missing," Aragorn replied with a faint, grim smile.

            "Nor can I," Gimli put in, his voice made gruffer than usual by his exhaustion.  "I would go with you to see the Lady, Aragorn, but I fear I would faint on the way, and no Elf is going to witness such a thing so long as I am a Dwarf of the Mountains!"  The words would have been spiteful if the old Gimli, the one who had not been the friend of Legolas, had been speaking them.  But Gimli the Elf-friend spoke in jest, as he often had done with Legolas, and none of those present were in any way offended.

            "Then sleep, Master Dwarf, and you shall see the Lady in due course with the others," Evanen replied graciously.  "Come with us, Elf-friends.  You are once again the guests of the Golden Wood of Lórien."

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            Frodo felt as though he was stumbling through a particularly pleasant dream as he and the others followed the Elves to the camp at Egladil.  The forest around them shone with an ethereal light, for the sun's golden beams passed through every leaf and branch in the canopy above and created dancing patterns of light on the forest floor.  The great mallorn-trees rustled gently in the breeze.  Small flowers nodded to the weary travelers as they passed.  Lothlórien had grown even more beautiful since they had last beheld it, if that were possible.

            The hobbits, especially, were in sore need of rest.  They had not stayed awake for most of the journey as had Gimli, but their small bodies were not at all meant for such stresses as they had encountered.  The Elves walked alongside them, and steadied them when they stumbled.  Frodo was at the same time grateful to have returned to the Wood, and worried that every moment they delayed was another in which the Dark Lord advanced his plans from Barad-dûr, the Tower in Mordor.

            "We have reached the edge of Egladil," one of the Elves announced encouragingly.  "There, do you see your friend?  He is coming to meet you!"

            Just as the Elf had spoken, Merry's cheerful voice reached the ears of his companions.  "Hallo, there, fellow Frodo followers!" he called, grinning so widely it seemed that his face would split in two.

            "Merry!" Pippin cried, breaking into a run and tackling the other hobbit to the ground.  "I was worried all the way here!  Are you well now?"

            Merry untangled himself from his friend and stood to embrace Frodo and Sam, who eagerly inquired as to his health despite their exhaustion.  "I am very fine now, my friends, very fine indeed!" Merry replied.  "The Elves have been very kind, especially the Lady Galadriel.  She healed me from the poison on the arrow that struck me, you know, nasty thing it was."  The hobbit gave Boromir and Gimli a bright smile, but then his expression faltered.  "Oh!  Where are Legolas and Aragorn?  Have they gone to see the Lord and Lady ahead of us?"

            Gimli did not speak, but Boromir answered, "Aragorn has gone on to see the Lord and Lady of the Wood, but our friend Legolas is missing since the attack of the Nazgûl."

            Merry was much subdued by the news.  "Well, come along, all of you, and eat something before you fall over and perish.  After that, I wager you will all sleep for a long time.  Come!"

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            When Frodo next awoke, he was lying in a soft nest of living tree branches.  The sun was shining brightly, but he and the others of the Company were lying in the shade so they would not overheat.  He heard singing nearby, and recognized the mellow voices of the Elves.  They were sitting in a group nearby, singing in their own language.  Frodo sat up, being careful not to disturb the others sleeping around him.  Sam, Merry and Pippin were still fast asleep, as were Gimli and Boromir.  Aragorn had not yet returned from the City of the Galadhrim.  

            Frodo rose and picked his way through the sleeping hobbits around him, then quietly went over and sat down with the Elves.  They smiled in greeting, and the nearest inquired in his native tongue as to Frodo's health.

            Frodo knew some Elvish, so he replied carefully in that language.  "_I am well, thank you," he said softly.                                                                       _

            "We are pleased," the Elf said in Westron.  "You slept all through the afternoon and the night, and it is now morning."  He glanced over at the rest of the Fellowship.  "I believe your companions are rousing as well.  Breakfast is all set out there on the pavilion, and after you have eaten we shall go on to Caras Galadhon to meet the Lord and Lady."

            Frodo stood and bowed.  "Thank you, Master Elves, for your renewed hospitality."

            They nodded sagely.  "The pleasure is ours," one of them said.  "It has been long since we entertained such diverse and diverting guests."

            Merry, Pippin and Sam traipsed over to join the conversation.  "Good morning, afternoon, and night," Pippin said, yawning.  "Whichever we have missed in our sleep."

            "Is Aragorn back yet?" Sam asked.

            "No, I think we are going to meet him at the City after breakfast," Frodo answered.

            "Go and eat, Master Hobbits," the nearest Elf told them.  "We will set out afterwards."

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            It was late morning when the Company and their Elven escorts at last began the journey to Caras Galadhon.  The Elves asked if any of the Fellowship had songs to share on the way, since the Galadhrim had sung during breakfast.  

            "Come on, Frodo, you're the best singer of us," Merry said.  "Let's have a song, one of Bilbo's maybe?"

            Frodo felt lighter-hearted than he had for many, many days.  The Ring's weight at his neck seemed to have lessened.  He felt well enough to sing, he thought.  "All right," he said.  The he began to sing the song that Bilbo had taught him at Rivendell:

_Eärendil was a mariner_

_that tarried in Arvernien;_

_he built a boat of timber felled_

_in Nimbrethil to journey in;_

_her sails he wove of silver fair,_

_of silver were her lanterns made,_

_her prow was fashioned like a swan,_

_and light upon her banners laid._

_In panoply of ancient kings,_

_in chained rings he armoured him;_

_his shining shield was scored with runes_

_to ward all wounds and harm from him;_

_his bow was made of dragon-horn,_

_his arrows shorn of ebony,_

_of silver was his habergeon,_

_his scabbard of chalcedony;_

_his sword of steel was valiant,_

_of adamant his helmet tall,_

_an eagle-plume upon his crest,_

_upon his breast an emerald._

_Beneath the Moon and under star_

_he wandered far from northern strands;_

_bewildered on enchanted ways_

_beyond the days of mortal lands._

_From gnashing of the Narrow Ice_

_where shadow lies on frozen hills,_

_from nether heats and burning waste_

_he turned in haste, and roving still_

_on starless waters far astray_

_at last he came to Night of Naught,_

_and passed, and never sight he saw_

_of shining shore nor light he sought._

_The winds of wrath came driving him,_

_and blindly in the foam he fled_

_from west to east and errandless,_

_unheralded he homeward sped._

_There flying Elwing came to him,_

_and flame was in the darkness lit;_

_more bright than light of diamond_

_the fire upon her carcanet._

_The Silmaril she bound on him_

_and crowned him with the living light_

_dauntless then with burning brow_

_he turned his prow; and in the night_

_from Otherworld beyond the Sea_

_there strong and free a storm arose,_

_a wind of power in Tarmenel;_

_by paths that seldom mortal goes_

_his boat it bore with biting breath_

_as might of death across the grey_

_and long-forsaken seas distressed:_

_from east to west he passed away._

_Through Evernight he back was borne_

_on black and roaring waves that ran_

_o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores_

_that drowned before the Days began,_

_until he heard on strands of pearl_

_where ends the world the music long,_

_where ever-foaming billows roll_

_the yellow gold and jewels wan._

_He saw the Mountain silent rise_

_where twilight lies upon the knees_

_of Valinor, and Eldamar_

_beheld afar beyond the seas._

_A wanderer escaped from night_

_To haven white he came at last,_

_To Elvenhome the green and fair_

_Where keen the air, where pale as glass_

_Beneath the Hill of Ilmarin_

_a-glimmer in a valley sheer_

_the lamplit towers of Tirion_

_are mirrored on the Shadowmere._

_He tarried there from errantry,_

_and melodies they taught to him,_

_and sages old him marvels told,_

_and harps of gold they brought to him._

_they clothed him then in elven-white,_

_and seven lights before him sent,_

_as through the Calacirian_

_to hidden land forlorn he went._

_He came unto the timeless halls_

_where shining fall the countless years,_

_and endless reigns the Elder King_

_in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;_

_and words unheard were spoken then_

_of folk of Men and Elven-kin,_

_beyond the world were visions showed_

_forbid to those that dwell therein._

_A ship then new they built for him_

_of mithril and of elven-glass_

_with shining prow; no shaven oar_

_nor sail she bore on silver mast:_

_the Silmaril as lantern light_

_and banner bright with living flame_

_to gleam thereon by Elbereth_

_herself was set, who thither came_

_and wings immortal made for him,_

_and laid on him undying doom,_

_to sail the shoreless skies and come_

_behind the Sun and light of Moon._

_From Evereven's lofty hills_

_where softly silver fountains fall_

_his wings him bore, a wandering light,_

_beyond the mighty Mountain Wall._

_From World's End then he turned away,_

_and yearned again to find afar_

_his home through shadows journeying,_

_and burning as an island star_

_on high above the mists he came,_

_a distant flame before the Sun,_

_a wonder ere the waking dawn_

_where grey the Norland waters run._

_And over Middle-earth he passed_

_and heard at last the weeping sore_

_of women and of elven-maids_

_in Elder Days, in years of yore._

_But on him mighty doom was laid,_

_till Moon should fade, an orbed star_

_to pass, and tarry never more_

_on __Hither__Shores__ where mortals are;_

_for ever still a herald on_

_an errand that should never rest_

_to bear his shining lamp afar,_

_the Flammifer of Westernesse._

            When Frodo had finished the song, they all burst into applause.  The Elves in particular had enjoyed the words, as they spoke of Eärendil and Elwing, the sire and dam of Lord Elrond Half-elven of Imladris.

            "Well sung, Master Hobbit!" one of the Elves said laughingly, placing a hand on Frodo's shoulder.  "Perhaps you might repeat it for the Lord and Lady, if time and circumstance allow!"

            Frodo blushed a little.  "Thank you.  It was wrought by my uncle, Bilbo.  I heard it and learned its words at Rivendell before we set out for Mordor."  He spoke in a low tone, as though hesitant to speak of that dark and evil land in so bright and gay a setting.

            "I daresay your uncle is part Elf himself," the Elf said kindly, his eyes twinkling merrily.  

            "Then his Elven ancestor was the shortest Elf ever, for Bilbo is not taller than any of us hobbits," Merry said.

            Boromir was smiling, too, but his mirth was much subdued.  "Well done, Frodo.  If all the citizens of the Shire sing as well, then it is a wonder any of you could find the heart to leave!"

            "Singing is a good pastime in the Shire," Frodo said.  "One that we shall hopefully enjoy again someday."  

            "I am moved to sing as well," one of the Elves remarked.  "I do not know the words in the Westron tongue, but it speaks of the maiden Nimrodel, for whom the river at our northern border is named."

            A sudden wince ran across the faces of the Company, and their reaction did not escape the notice of their Elven escorts.  "Our apologies, Master Elf," Frodo said hastily.  "Our pain springs from memory, not from your offer of song.  Our missing friend Legolas sang to us of the maiden Nimrodel upon our first arrival in Lórien.  We are deeply troubled as to his fate."

            The Elf looked upon them all with compassion.  "I understand your worry.  I have no doubt, however, that Elessar and the Lord and Lady have by this time construed a plan to search out Legolas and bring him safely to you."

            "How much longer until we reach the City?" Pippin asked.

            "We shall arrive at dusk," the Elf replied.  "And then you will go to meet the Lord and Lady and learn what course of action you must take."

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End of Chapter Two.  It isn't a cliffhanger, but I hope everyone is still wanting to know what happened to Legolas!  He may not show up until Chapter Four, but I'll do my best.  Review, please!  Francine liked the reviews from Chapter One, so keep 'em comin'!


	3. Rebirth

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Three**

**Author: Katharine the Great**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This is getting even more A/U as it goes on, and is still somewhat rooted in the movie's portrayal of characters.  ****Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with a …, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

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            Cold.

            It was so _cold…_

            The cold had started at his heart, where the blade had cleaved his flesh and rent the steadily beating organ.  It was not the cool breath of winter, nor the icy touch of the River, but a dry, terrifying chill that seeped through his every bone and sinew.  

He stared out into the black, airless void, trembling with the unbearable cold.  He tried to curl in on himself to ease the bitter frost in his heart, but he could not bring himself to move.  His ears searched for the familiar sounds of his own breathing and his heart beating, but they had fled alongside the warmth of life.  

            _Kelo!  Kelo!  _

            The words echoed distantly.  It was his own voice, sounding much stronger than he felt now.  The command had been directed to the others.

            _What others?_

            He experienced a brief moment of panic, as he could not remember what others he had been speaking to.  Then, the memories flooded back.  The boats on the River...  the noise in the darkened, starlit woods…the shrieking attack of the black-shrouded Nazgûl…the _blade…_

            _The cold…_

            With a soft, shivery moan, Legolas of Mirkwood awoke.  His lungs expanded sluggishly, as though unused to the activity of breathing.  He cracked one eyelid open.  His vision was blurry and unfocused.  There was a harsh light all around him, white and unforgiving, but he could not see the source.  

            He shifted slightly and gasped at the explosion in his breast.  It was both frigid and searing at the same time, rattling every rib and forcing the air from his chilled lungs in a toneless cry.  It seemed to him that his heart writhed within him, groaning soundlessly against the ache overtaking the icy numbness clutching his chest.   

            Legolas opened his eyes all the way and forced his stiffened neck to turn so that he could take in his surroundings.  He was lying on the floor of a large black chamber, one that somehow reflected the blue-white light pouring from the large windows.  The circular chamber was wide and high-ceilinged, with black resin walls marred by wide crevices and thick ridges.  It was as though the walls had been flogged to tatters and then left to heal without any medicinal care, Legolas thought.  He did not recognize the fashion of anything he saw; there were no identifiable symbols anywhere.

            The Elf lifted his head slightly in order to look down and discern his own state.  His green and brown raiment was unchanged, albeit somewhat torn and filthy from his bout with the Nazgûl.  He was stretched out on his back, and his wrists and ankles were chained to rings set in the floor.  There was a large dark stain over his heart where the blade had struck him.  

            _My heart…they destroyed my heart…_

            Legolas allowed his head to fall back and rest on the floor.  The brief moments of activity had exhausted him unduly.  His skin felt cold and tight, as if it was too small for his body.  He twisted his head around once again to glance up at his hands, which lay limp and unresponsive above his head.  The long fingers were curled into claw-like formations.  Legolas squinted in the severe lighting.  The skin of his left hand was whiter than bone, and a spiderweb's pattern of tiny black veins traced across the surface.

            _Elbereth Gilthoniel, the Elf thought in dismay, shivering with a renewed chill.  __Merciful Varda, what is happening?_

            "You are awake, son of Thranduil?" inquired a voice from the left.  The tone was deep with age and wisdom, yet Legolas' sensitive ears detected the speaker's thready anticipation.

            Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but instead of his own smooth speech there was a ravaged hiss in his throat.  His eyes widened with fright as he heard his own lips forming words out of the animalistic hissing.  "Who…are…you?"  

            The figure approached slowly, its soft footfalls accompanied by a pronounced thumping, perhaps that of a staff or walking stick.  A tall man dressed all in white, with a mane of thick white hair and a long beard to match.  His eyes were strong and piercing, and the coldness in them rivaled the frost in Legolas' body.  

            Legolas' eyes narrowed, and he barely noticed the angry hiss that escaped his rubbery lips.  _Saruman, he thought.  __The traitor at Isengard.___

            "So you do know me," Saruman boomed, his voice echoing in the chamber.  "I have been watching you, Legolas of the Elves.  I know that you are one of the Company in league with the Ring-bearer." 

            Legolas said nothing.  He did not know yet what scheme Saruman was concocting, and his own inability to speak with the melodious voice of his people was more than disconcerting.  He did not intend to speak again unless it was necessary.

            Saruman was not disturbed at all by the silence.  The wizard paced in a slow circle around his captive, his long staff tapping the floor as he went.  "Do you recall by what manner you arrived here?" he asked.  When he received no reply, he continued, "It would be a marvel if you did remember at all.  Very well, then, I shall tell you the tale.  You were attacked by the Nine Riders of Minas Morgul, and their lord stabbed you with the Morgul-blade.  He struck your heart, but such wounds from a weapon of Mordor do not kill the victim immediately.  The blow sent you into a cold trance, one from which you could not awake until called by one with the power to do so."

            Legolas heard a tinge of pride in the traitor's voice.  He sorely wanted to shout out condemnation and a promise that Saruman would not succeed in his plans, but the dry rasp in his throat prevented any such exclamation.  And so, Legolas kept his silence and allowed the fallen Istari to continue his explanation.

            "As the head of the Order of the Istari, I have many creatures at my command," Saruman was saying.  "Countless birds and beasts that serve my will, all throughout the land.  The great red bird Gúoshë, one of my many observers in the trees, was watching when you fell at the River bank.  He hurried to inform me as to your impending fate, and I immediately dispatched a company of Uruk-hai to collect your body from the bank.  The Nazgûl had long since departed; they never tend to those they wound.  The Uruk-hai delivered you to me yesterday, and here you have been since then.  I called you from the trance when I deemed the time was right."  Saruman peered down at Legolas with burrowing eyes.  "Do you know what is happening within your body, Legolas Greenleaf?  Do the Elves tell any stories or sing songs about the fate of those struck by a Nazgûl blade?"

            Legolas blinked, unwilling to let even a single word out so long as his voice was trapped in that awful hissing.  He met Saruman's gaze with a steady glare, and was surprised to see the wizard look away.

            "'Tis true that the stare of a Wraith chills the blood," Saruman remarked, straightening up.  "I have not spoken plainly before, but I shall do so now.  You are among those who have died but are not truly dead, Legolas.  Your life-energy is fleeing from your body as I speak, driven out by the poison of the Morgul-blade.  Your heart and lungs have ceased to vibrate with the functions of life.  Soon, your physical form will fade entirely, and then you will become a true Wraith of the Dark Lord: invisible and completely subject to his will."

            Legolas schooled his expression to one of blank passiveness, but his spirit cried out in horror and revulsion.  He could feel the cold tightening around his ruined heart, whispering a dark siren song into every fiber of his being.  The Dark Lord was already calling him into service.  Soon, the chains on his limbs would not be able to prevent him from fleeing to Mordor, to the black tower of Minas Morgul, where the Nine Ringwraiths resided.  _Oh, Elbereth, please, not this!  I would die a thousand deaths before I would become a slave of the Dark One! the Elf wept silently.  For an immortal being, death was a serious matter, one that was not taken lightly.  To wish for death was a harsh thing indeed._

            Saruman seemed to see straight through Legolas' stony expression, in the way that all of the Istari seemed to be able to discern hidden things.  "I see that your fate both terrifies and sickens you, Elf-prince of Mirkwood.  Do you wish for death instead?"

            Legolas still remained silent.  He would not yield anything to the traitorous wizard, not one word in response to his queries.  _A plague on you and upon all the evils you have perpetrated, Legolas thought angrily at Saruman._

            "I tell you that your fate shall be neither of these," Saruman told him.  "You shall not serve Sauron as a Wraith at his bidding, and you shall not die naturally."  He took in a breath, as if pausing to savor the moment.  "You shall serve _me. The first of the Wraiths of Isengard."_

            Legolas could not contain himself any longer.  "I…will _never serve you!!" he spat, flinching at the ugly shriek that burst from his lips. _

            If Saruman was unsettled by the hideous wail echoing in the chamber, he did not show it.  Instead, he lifted his long staff and held it horizontally over Legolas' prone form.  "You shall serve me!" he thundered.  "As the lord of your kind, the race of Elven-wraiths, which will spring forth from Legolas Greenleaf's blade!  My power will assert over that of Elves and Men, over that of the Dark One himself!  I shall master the One Ring, and my army of Elven-wraiths will roam the land like a plague upon the rebellious!"

            With that proclamation, Saruman upended his staff and plunged the end of it into the gaping wound in Legolas' chest.  The wood plunged through the jagged rent in the Elf's heart, and Legolas' spine snapped up off the floor in an agonized arc.  The agony exploded throughout his body like a sudden blizzard, consuming him and forcing a dreadful scream of anguish from his grated throat.

            Saruman's voice rang out over the Elf's escalating shrieks.  "Hear me, O Wraith of Morgul yet to be born!  For you shall not serve the one who called you, but instead the one who binds you now!  Possessed only of my will, and powerful beyond the imaginings of mortals, you shall do my bidding as no other has or could since the dawn of my reign!"  The wizard then began to chant in a sonorous voice that resonated in Legolas' ears like the steady beats of a great drum, and the agony soared to ever greater heights.  "A shade in thy fashion, a slave to my will, neither living nor dead, sworn only to kill, by whim of your Master, Saruman the White, now bend to the darkness, and flee from the light!"

            Legolas heard the chorus of bones snapping from the strain in his body, and as the screams poured in ever-increasing volume from his lips, he felt the terrible weight of Saruman's will bearing down on him.  It crushed him to the floor, despite his desperate writhing and flailing.  He saw a great white mass hurtling toward him, driving out the blackness in his mind, but the white was even more terrifying than the black, and colder still.  _Lords of the Valar, spare me this doom! he cried out wildly, shrinking away in the face of the wizard's force.  __Save me from this evil, lest I be forced to bow to it!_

            Then there was no more time for thought or prayer.  Saruman's command stuck him with the force of a tempest.  Legolas fought and struggled against the invasion, but it was to no avail.  He felt his grip slipping as he was battered by the howling winds of Saruman's strength.  The bloodless cold throbbed at his unbeating heart and radiated outward in sharp spikes.  Shivers of exquisite agony raced along every nerve ending, and Legolas howled in rage as he felt his spirit, everything that made him an Elf, a Firstborn of the royal house of Mirkwood, slipping further and further from the core of his being.  White static filled his vision.  And with a last scream of rage/pain/grief/terror/sorrow, Legolas tumbled down into the void beneath the howl of the blizzard in his soul.

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            Far away, in the shining woods of Lórien, four days before the remnants of the Company of the Ring were to arrive and join their wounded hobbit friend, the Lady Galadriel gazed into her Mirror.  A blinding white agony filled her heart and mind, and she fell to the ground, crying out as no Elf ever had in that sacred place.

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End of Chapter Three!  Anyone freaking out yet?  Don't worry, everyone, I won't leave you hanging.  Chapter Four will address Legolas' fate.  Please, review! 


	4. The Commission

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Four**

**Author: Katharine the Great**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

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            The Tower of Orthanc had long stood silent, a mammoth obelisk cloaked in mystery and serenity.  In days of old, all who had come within sight of its jutting form had paused to wonder at the secrets it contained, and the powerful wizard who resided there.  Saruman had rarely emerged from his haven even before his lust for power had consumed him, but he had not been seen at all since the dawn of Sauron's renewed aggression against the forces of Middle-earth.  Then, too, leisurely travel between lands had almost entirely ceased, and those few who still braved the roads made sure to avoid passing under the darkened skies of Isengard. 

The Tower itself had become an eerily silent oasis in the midst of the clang and roar of the Orc-bellows entrenched all around it.  The bellows were employed in the making of armor and weaponry for the dreaded Uruk-Hai, who erupted from their muddy birthing-grounds with swift regularity.  The majestic trees that had previously shaded the grounds of Isengard had been ruthlessly uprooted at Saruman's command, so that the great underground caverns needed to create an army for the Dark Lord could be constructed.  Smoke from smoldering underground fires had enveloped the Tower's base and seared it to a dull gray.

Saruman the White himself remained unchanged in appearance, except for the burning desire for power that shaded his formerly wise and grave eyes.  He walked the corridors of his Tower, the walls of which he himself had taken great pains to reinforce with magics of old, so that it would take the might of all the peoples of Middle-earth to bring it to ruin.  Ancient runes were inscribed on the walls of each hallway and chamber, having been engraved by the Tower's craftsmen long before.  Saruman knew each by name, and the depth of their meanings as well.  They had once been a source of speculation and introspection for him, as a scholar and keeper of wisdom beyond most mortals.  But those days were long past, consumed by his own self-interest and the shifting tides of war.         

Saruman came to a large door set with black stones and delicate threads of mithril, which formed snatches of Elvish script.  The Istari elder knew the meaning of these words as well, and he allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corners of his thin mouth.  Many of the inscriptions in the Tower of Orthanc were warnings against misusing one's own strengths in pursuit of personal gain.  Their tidings of caution had long since ceased to be heeded by the occupant who daily beheld them.

Saruman stepped through the doorway as the wide doors slipped open before him.  The chamber beyond was harshly lit by the windows, and the brightness was further intensified by the reflective stones embedded in the walls.  He looked upon the chamber's sole fleck of color, and was filled with satisfaction at his handiwork.  "Are you prepared?" he inquired.

The figure turned to face him.  It was clad in thick, flowing robes of glistening white-silver, like the color of the Sea when the moon skittered across its shimmering waves.  A dark void resided within the figure's forward-drawn hood, in place of a living visage.  A belt of wrought silver laden with a pair of long white knives was loosely clasped at its waist, and clawed gloves of the same cold metal encased the creature's fingers.  Slate-gray straps ran across its unmoving chest, connected to a quiver of white arrows at its back.  The figure was silent as a grave, but it nodded once slowly, as if in a trance.  

Saruman came closer, faint tremors running up his spine as he beheld the absence of form within the shroud.  He turned his voice to a deep intone.  "I name you Lasselanta, First Wraith of Isengard, for you are likened to the chill wind that forebodes the winter's icy spell," he told the silent creature.  "You shall be the herald of Saruman the White from this day forward.  You are indelibly bound to my will alone, and to I alone you shall answer.  Isengard's Tower is your bastion, and your only allegiance is centered here.  This place will beckon you in times of uncertainty and defeat."  Saruman raised a hand as though bestowing a benediction of old.  "And when the day comes that your kindred roam the land as my servants, you shall be the Lord of the Elven-wraiths, surpassed only by myself."

The Lasselanta Wraith stood still as a pillar of stone, his head slightly cocked to the side as he listened to his master's words.  When Saruman had finished, the creature nodded once slowly, as he had done before.  Every phrase the wizard spoke further shaped the Wraith's internal set of directives, the instincts that he would cling to in instances of doubt or indecision.  He was not a personage unto himself; he was a shade, a mere shadow of the being that had been called Legolas of Mirkwood.  Saruman's will and power suffused him, driving him to action at the wizard's command.  Never again, however, would he act upon his own wishes, for he had none to speak of.  The Wraith was an empty vessel into which Saruman had poured the essence of his purpose and authority, and any personality the creature possessed was born of that very same essence.

"Now, Wraith of Isengard, your first task awaits you," Saruman said, lowering his hand.  His dark eyes burned with fierce intensity.  "You shall pursue the Ring-bearer, and when you have discovered his whereabouts, you shall capture him alive and deliver the One Ring to myself.  Do you understand what you are to do?"

There was a third nod from Lasselanta, and still not one word.  Saruman was not certain as to whether the Wraith could speak, and if he could, in what tongue he would express himself.  The Nine Ringwraiths of Minas Morgul spoke in the Black Speech, and because they had once been Men, they could also use Westron if need arose.  Saruman assumed that his Wraith would speak either Elvish or Westron, but both would emerge in the guttural hissing common to all Wraiths.

"Go, then," Saruman commanded.  "And do not fail."

            A shaft of ice pierced the Wraith's immaterial chest as Saruman finished speaking, directly through the place where his Elven-body's heart had been stabbed with the Nazgûl blade.  The creature winced, recognizing the threat in his master's words.  He finally spoke, using a creaky, broken version of his formerly native Sindarin tongue.  "_I…understand."_

            Saruman nodded then, stepping aside to allow the Wraith to pass by.  "Good.  You will find a horse native to Rohan waiting beyond the Orc-pits.  He has been trained to obey without fail those who wield my authority.  Go."

            Lasselanta stepped past the wizard without a word or gesture of acknowledgement; none was needed.  The Wraith would obey every word Saruman had spoken, for such was his nature.  He left the chamber with light, steady footfalls.  He wore no boots under his cloak, as did the Ringwraiths, but only light silvery shoes.  Every aspect of the Elven-wraith had been tailored in defiance and mockery of the Dark Lord's claim to power through his Ringwraiths, for the Istari elder of Orthanc had long since tired of Sauron's looming domination of Middle-earth.  Lasselanta was indeed the personification of Saruman's rebellion.

            The Orcs toiling away beneath the grounds of Isengard had little idea of what was transpiring in the Tower above.  There were some who, at exactly the right moment, lifted their blackened eyes to glimpse a fleeting image of silver and white bounding over the land with a speed impossible to gauge.  None could possibly comprehend the meaning of the strange apparition, however, and none tried to.  

And so Lasselanta the Wraith came to the outreaches of Isengard and leaped nimbly astride the gray horse with white mane and tail that he found waiting there.  The Wraith's long white bow was attached to the saddle, along with a cluster of additional arrows.  Elves did not need saddles or reins to master their beasts, but the death-stricken Wraith no longer possessed any connection with nature.  The horse bucked once, but was immediately cowed by a harsh word in Lasselanta's cracked timbre.  The animal became obedient and subdued, just as Saruman had said it would.

The Wraith clutched the reins in his metallic fists and uttered a phrase, uncaring that the words were an exact echo of his former self.  "_Noro lim," he commanded the horse.  "__Noro lim."         _

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NOTE: "Lasselanta" literally means "leaf-fall" in the Quenya dialect of the Elvish language.  Saruman was actually being pretty punny when he picked that name, since "Legolas" literally means "green-leaf."  Lasselanta is also the word used to describe the fourth season of the Elven nature-calendar, and it's roughly equivalent to our October and November.

Anyway, that's the end of Chapter Four.  Does everyone like my Elven-wraith?  Review!  Francine loves you all, and so do I!


	5. Many Meetings

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Five**

**Author: Katharine the Great**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Replies to reviews:**

Staggering Wood-elf: I'm glad you're enjoying this leetle venture of mine!  And as to the question…I might turn Legolas back, or I might not.  It depends on Francine's mood.  Thank you for your review, and keep 'em coming!  

Raen: Oh, don't smack your forehead on the screen!  That sounds unhealthy!  I have to say that I greatly appreciate your chapter-by-chapter reviews.  Francine is going to become a fat little Plotbunny by the time this story is finished!

AJ Matthews: Francine says her happy endings are few and far between, but she might come up with an idea for one if lots of people feed her reviews…

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            Caras Galadhon, the City of the Galadhrim, rose before the remnant of the Company just as the fiery globe of daylight began to slip below the earthen horizon to the west.  Green, gold and silver lights danced merrily among the countless branches and waving leaves that comprised the great City's scaffoldings.  The Elves led their charges to the white bridge at the northeastern edge of the realm, and from there they entered the gates.  As on the eve of their first entrance, the Company saw no one upon the paths below, but detected many fair voices in the trees above.     

Frodo breathed a sigh of deep contentment, straining his ears to catch the first faint notes of the Elvish songs floating unceasingly amidst the great mallorn-trees.  He felt a profound sense of home and belonging, though in his heart he knew that he could not remain with the burden at his neck.  The Ring's destruction was his ultimate purpose, and the longer he bore it, the more urgently he felt the call to rid the land of its evil.  Not even the serene calm of Lothlórien could divert him from that task for long.  "I fear the beauty of this place will cause a tarry far greater than is prudent," Frodo murmured, so softly that only Sam walking by his side heard it.

"Don't worry, Mister Frodo," Sam replied in an equally low tone.  "Lady Galadriel is awful wise.  She'll know what to do, I'm sure of it."

Frodo said nothing more, but gave his friend a wan smile.  Lórien was too fair a locale for such worrisome contemplations, and so he resolved not to think too much on the matter until such time as the issue was broached by the Lord and Lady of the Wood.

"Look!  We have come to the dwelling of Celeborn and Galadriel," one of the Elves told him.  

Frodo and the others looked ahead, and saw once again the great smooth silver tree with its lofty stature and thick-leaved boughs.  The white ladder remained unaltered, and a threesome of Elves in white cloaks stood at the foot of it.  They spoke some mellifluous words to the leader of the Elves conducting the Company.

"You are granted admittance by order of the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel," one of the Elves said to Frodo, casting his bright glance among the rest of the group.  "They and Elessar await your arrival."

Pippin shrugged his long cloak back and mounted the ladder.  "Come on, then, all of you, let's go find out what's happened in our absences!" he beckoned the others.  

Frodo went ahead of Pippin, who followed behind with great eagerness.  Then came Gimli, most anticipative of the Lady's fair and wondrous gaze, and Merry and Sam, then Boromir at the end.  The Elves departed with a burst of cheerful laughter at the sight of the short-legged hobbits clambering up the ladder-rungs, which were spread further apart than any the hobbits were used to.

The stairs were many, and the Company paused to rest at various intervals along the way.  So great was their haste to rejoin the companion that the Elves had spoken of, however, that they rested little in comparison to their first ascendance to the home of Galadriel and Celeborn.  And so they came to that large hall set in the massive branches, and entered into the softly-lit oval chamber where the elders of Lórien were assembled.  

Gimli drew in a soft gasp upon seeing again the Lady of Lórien in all her beauty.  Galadriel of sun-stirred golden hair, together with Celeborn, the Elf-lord with silver locks and starlit eyes, rose from their chairs to greet their guests.  Aragorn was with them, dressed in gray raiment similar to that worn by the Elves. 

"Lórien again welcomes all of you in turn," Celeborn said gravely.  His sculpted features were more somber than Frodo had ever seen them before; evidently the news of the Nazgûl attack had greatly distressed him.  "Frodo, Meriadoc, Samwise, Peregrin, Gimli, and Boromir, six of the nine who set out, and Aragorn as the seventh.  The attack of the Nazgûl Riders was unforeseen, even in the light of Galadriel's Mirror."

"The Mirror, _ai, the Mirror," Galadriel said sadly.  "Many grievous tidings it has brought in recent days, and strange visions of white, but none regarding the Nine of Minas Morgul.  If they have truly resumed their pursuit, then the Quest is in great jeopardy, for it was only by the grace of Elbereth that you survived the journey to Rivendell when first you encountered the Wraiths," she told Frodo.  _

"The Ring cannot go on until the threat from the Nine is effectively nullified or in some way stayed," Celeborn said.

"Then we're staying here?" Pippin asked, his face brightening.  

"For a time, yes," Galadriel answered, and her gaze was so solemn that it wiped all traces of mirth from the hobbit's face.  "But the delay cannot be so long as the last one that was passed here, for every day the forces of Mordor grow in strength."

Gimli had not spoken before, so intent was his sight upon Lady Galadriel, but now he opened his mouth to address her.  "My Lady, I humbly beg your pardon for this interruption, but I must speak or my heart will crumble within me," the Dwarf said.  "Is there any news of our lost comrade and friend, Legolas?"

Aragorn was the one who answered him.  "The Lord and Lady dispatched search parties five days ago, Gimli, as soon as Léhulai told them of our friend's disappearance.  The parties have not returned as of yet, nor should we expect them to until they find something of import or have exhausted all hope."

Gimli's brow creased at the words, but Celeborn's clear voice cut in before any remark could be made.  "Be not troubled, friend Dwarf," the Lord of Lórien said.  "Hope is in large supply and is not easily exhausted.  If there is any evidence of Prince Legolas' fate, my people will find it."

The use of Legolas' formal title caught Frodo by surprise.  He had almost forgotten that his companion was one of the royal house of Mirkwood.  Legolas was the youngest son of Thranduil, the Elven-king of that land.  "Is there any way to let his father know?" Frodo found himself asking. 

Galadriel's features bore faint sorrow.  "Messengers have already been sent to Mirkwood, Frodo.  Thranduil will learn of his son's disappearance within a day."

"The king will likely send his own search parties to places both near and remote," Aragorn remarked.  "Between the Galadhrim and the people of Mirkwood, there will be no area left without investigation.  Does this word bring you some comfort, Gimli?"

"Only of the paltry sort, but thank you all the same for your reassurances," the Dwarf replied.  He gave Celeborn and Galadriel a low bow.  "And thank you, my Lord and Lady of the Wood, for all you are doing on our behalf.  The Dwarves shall not forget this kind favor as long as I live, I promise you that."

"And your concern for our kinsman shall long be remembered among the Elves, Dwarf Gimli," Lord Celeborn said graciously.  "You are all welcome to join us for the evening meal, but I implore that no one speaks of these discomfiting matters during the meal.  There must be some respite for the weary in these dark times, and I will have Lothlórien provide such relief for those who bear the Ring."  The Elf-lord's mild gaze rested on Frodo as he spoke.  His eyes were kind, and Frodo felt a swell of gratefulness in his heart.

"Thank you for your continued goodwill, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel," Aragorn said, stepping to Frodo's side and bowing to the Elves.  "With your leave, I will retire directly after the meal.  The weariness in my bones threatens to collapse me where I stand," he added with a rueful quirk to his lips.  His posture was straight and tall, but exhaustion pulled at his eyes and added a century to his visage.  

Galadriel smiled at Aragorn.  "Nay, Elessar, do not feel obliged to dine just now.  I see that you are in much need of rest, so much so that you do not feel the pangs of hunger.  It would benefit you more to sleep through the night and awake refreshed and ravenous in the morning, I think."

"The Lady is perceptive," Aragorn replied with a small chuckle.  Frodo realized that he had not heard such a buoyant sound from the Ranger's lips in many, many days.  It was a heartening thing.  "Very well, then, I will go to bed immediately.  Dine and rest well, everyone."  With those words and another slight bow, Aragorn turned and exited the great Elven hall.

Frodo was glad for the Lady's kindness towards Aragorn; if any deserved a respite from hardship, it was him.  Aragorn had taken on the role of leadership when Gandalf had fallen to his doom during his battle with the Balrog in the mines of Moria.  Frodo deeply missed the gray-cloaked wizard, his friend and a friend of the Shire for such a very long time.  Gandalf's absence was like a great wound, a tear in the fabric of the Company that could not be repaired.  _How I wish Gandalf was here with us, Frodo thought sadly.  __Perhaps he would be able to help defeat the Nazgûl and find Legolas._

Galadriel's eyes were on Frodo, and her gaze was at once understanding.  "News of your lost companion will not be long in coming," she said softly.  "Be assured, you will learn of it as soon as the search parties return."

Frodo swallowed and nodded.  "Thank you, Lady Galadriel."

"The sun has set at last," Celeborn declared, taking Galadriel's hand in his own.  "Come, it is time for the evening meal to begin."

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            "I can't remember the last time I had a meal so fine as that one," Merry sighed contentedly.

            "I can," Pippin said.  "It was the feast at Egladil before we left Lórien last time."

            "I think this supper was better, because we are not leaving the Wood right afterward," Sam said.  

            Frodo listened to his friends talking, but he himself stayed mostly quiet.  He had very little to say.  They were following their guide, a lone Elf with silent tread, to their sleeping quarters high in the trees.  Hobbits were not accustomed to heights, and so were normally loathe to sleep so high above their native earth; however, Lórien's great City was built upon such massive trunks that the hobbits could imagine they were actually low on the ground, and thereby sleep without worry.  Frodo was tired, not more so than before his rest at Egladil the previous night, but his steps lagged with weariness all the same.  He would be glad to fall into his bed.

            "Mister Frodo?"  Sam had walked closer to Frodo's side, and looked with concern on the other hobbit's drawn expression.  "Are you feelin' all right, sir?"

            Frodo nodded, grateful that though the way was well-lit, the darkness of nightfall still concealed the woe in his eyes.  "I am tired, Sam, and worried for our friend Legolas, but otherwise as well as I have been.  How are you holding up through all this?"

            "Much the same as you," Sam answered, shrugging his cloak closer about his shoulders.  "I'm glad to be walking this way again, here where it's safe and all, but a little bit of me wishes we could have gotten further down the River instead of being driven backwards like we were."

            Frodo looked at Sam with surprise.  "You must be poking about in my head, Sam Gamgee, for that is my feeling, as well." 

            "Oh, no, sir, no poking here!" Sam protested.  "I'm sure I couldn't poke even if I had a mind to." 

            His friend's anxious expression set Frodo to laughing.  "I'm starting to think that there's an awful lot you could do if you had a mind to, Sam," he said, clapping a hand on the other hobbit's shoulder.  

            "Hold!  What's going on up there?" Pippin asked in a whisper, drawing nearer to Frodo and dragging Merry with him.

            The four hobbits looked ahead to where Pippin was indicating.  Their guide Elf had paused and was speaking in low tones with a tall figure wrapped in a ragged gray robe.  The figure was stooped slightly, perhaps with age, but its face was hidden by the darkness and by the hood pulled low on its brow.  

            "Who do you suppose that is?" Merry asked in a low voice.  "Doesn't look like an Elf to me, though I can't see the ears from here."

            Frodo saw that Sam was unconsciously fingering his sword-hilt.  "I can't hear what they're saying," Frodo said softly.  "I'm sure there's nothing to be concerned about; this is Lothlórien, where no evil can abide."

            Their guide and his mysterious companion finished speaking, and the Elf walked back to join his charges.  "I have been relieved of my duty here, Master Hobbits," he said.  "The man you see ahead will take you to where you are going."  Seeing the wary expressions on their faces, he continued, "Be not afraid, for he is no enemy.  Indeed, he is a great friend to us all, and you would do well to treat him kindly."

            Frodo nodded and extended a hand to the Elf.  "Thank you, Master Elf, for your help thus far."

            The Elf took the proffered hand and bowed slightly to them all.  "May a bright star shine upon you in all your wanderings.  Peace and good night."  Then he left, and the hobbits peered ahead at the silent, still figure waiting on the path.

            "I suppose we should say hallo to him, if he is a friend," Frodo decided.  With his companions in tow, he approached the gray-cloaked figure.  "Good eve, sir.  If our former guide did not tell you as much, I am Frodo Baggins, and these are Sam, Merry, and Pippin.  If it is not rude of me to ask, who are you, and why do you seek us out?"

            "There are many who seek you, Frodo Baggins, and not all are kind in their intentions," the man answered softly, in a rich voice deepened with age and experience.  It stirred a chord in Frodo's heart, but he could not place its source.  "But I am come to aid you in your quest, as I have done before and shall continue to do."

            Frodo stared into the impenetrable shadow beneath the man's hood.  "What is your name, then, as one who claims to help me?"

            "My name?"  The figure laughed lowly, and the hobbits shivered with inexplicable chill.  It was not an unkind sensation, however, and not at all unpleasant.  Frodo found himself trusting the stranger even with so little knowledge of his identity.  "My name," the man said again.  "You have heard it before, I know, but I will not speak it here and now.  Come, let us go to your quarters; they are not far.  There I will reveal more fully what my business is with you."

            Then he turned and began to walk, his gait unhurried but purposeful.  The hobbits followed behind, glancing at each other and seeing their own curiosity mirrored on their fellows' faces.  A light melody in the Elvish tongue wafted through the air from somewhere above.  Lórien never stopped singing; it was one of the qualities that made the Golden Wood seem so unreal a place, and also more real than any other.  Frodo kept his eyes on the stranger's back as they went, though his heart collected the harmonies floating in his ears and treasured them with the many other lovely things he had seen and heard throughout the journey.  

            They reached the bough-chamber where the hobbits were to sleep.  Four beds of living branches and golden leaves were within a squareish compartment, also comprised of thriving tree limbs.  The leaves waved gently in a soft breeze, and the songs of the Elves filtered through the spaces between them.  Woven with the limbs were softly glowing strands of a luminescent vine, which formed intricate patterns and cast a soft light within the room.    

The strange guide entered first and sat between the two beds at the rear of the chamber.  There was a flash of pure white beneath his drab gray raiment, as though the cloak was merely a disguise to hide whatever light shone within it. The stranger beckoned the hobbits, saying, "Come in, there is room enough for all including me.  I am no threat; even less of one in this place, I daresay, for there are watchful marksmen all around us."

            "Surely they cast no eye of suspicion upon us four?" Merry asked, glancing around at the trees and seeing no one.

            The figure laughed again.  "No, Master Hobbit Merry, I meant only that the Elves of Lórien are accomplished archers, and that should anyone seek to cause harm in this Wood they will find themselves at the points of many arrows in a short time.  So you see, you are doubly safe here, from evils within as well as from without."

            Frodo entered and sat down on one of the beds, being careful to keep a short distance between himself and the stranger.  He wanted to trust his instincts, which told him that the man was indeed a friend to be welcomed, but his days of carrying the Ring had sharpened his wariness to a fine point.  He waited until his friends were inside the bough-chamber, then said, "All right, we are under a roof now.  Speak as you said you would, sir, and tell us your name."

            "My name will be apparent in short time, Frodo, for you know me better than these others," the figure said.  "Yet they will know me as well, for it is not such a long time since I was taken from your sight.  I can see in your eyes that you have not forgotten me, and for that I am glad.  Sad indeed is the life that is not remembered!"

            "You talk as though we know you already, but we do not," Pippin said impatiently.

            "I know you, sir," Frodo said softly, searching the air with his eyes.  "But I cannot recall by what name I know you.  It troubles me that there is a familiar person so near, and yet I cannot fathom his identity."

            "Then I shall help you in your fathoming, young hobbit, for you have suffered enough without an old man's wiles to distract you further," the stranger said gently.  He reached up with one nimbly-fingered hand and took hold of the edge of his hood.  With a flick of his wrist, he revealed his face.

            The four hobbits let out a cry and drew back in astonishment.  They stared in wonder and terror at the man before them, for as he had said, they knew him immediately.  But his was the face of one that they had long thought dead.  

            Frodo was the first to recover enough to speak.  "Gandalf?" he inquired in a small, high tone.  

            The wizard smiled, his eyes crinkling in the way they always had, and his long beard moved with his lips.  "Indeed I was Gandalf, and you may call me that still.  Come now, don't look at me so!  Have you no words of greeting for an old friend?"

            "A-an old friend who has been d-dead for many weeks!" Pippin stammered out, and his eyes were like great saucers.  "How have you come back from that quiet sleep, Gandalf sir?  We all saw you fall with the—"

            "Do not name him!" Gandalf said.  "Such creatures should not be spoken of in these surroundings.  Nevertheless I shall tell you this: I did not perish in my battle with the evil you saw at the bridge of Khazad-dûm.  As you see before you, it takes more than an unearthed creature of legend to destroy one for whom the flame of Anor still has use!"

            "But Gandalf!" Frodo exclaimed, finding his natural voice again.  "Gandalf, you are alive!  We thought you dead, and it was the cause of terrible grief to us all!"  Then, so overcome by emotion was he, Frodo flung himself at Gandalf and wrapped his arms around the wizard's neck.  He clung tightly, afraid that Gandalf would disappear into the realm of dreams if he loosed his grip.

            "Here, here, Frodo," Gandalf laughed, patting the hobbit's back.  "Let me go!  I will not disappear before your eyes, my young friend.  I am here now, and I do not intend to leave as I did before again."  When Frodo drew away, his face was streaked with tears of joy, and Gandalf smiled.  "It fills my heart with warmth to see such concern on my behalf, you four.  Tell me, how are the others faring?  Aragorn has led you thus far, I assume?"

            "Yes, Gandalf, Aragorn took the lead after—well, he's been leading us anyway," Merry answered.  "Doing a good job, too, but he missed you just as much as anyone else!" he added hastily.  

            "I do not doubt that, Meriadoc," Gandalf answered with a wink.  "I shall visit him later, I think.  But what of Gimli and Legolas and Boromir?  Are they still with the Company as well?  I have been in the quiet on these matters, I'm afraid, and I have only some snatches of information.  What is the tale since I left you?"

            The hobbits proceeded to tell Gandalf all that had occurred since his fall in the mines of Moria.  The wizard was mostly silent, only speaking now and then to comment on what he had heard about the events surrounding their journey.  When they reached the part about the attack on the River, Gandalf shook his head sadly.

            "Then you were forced to retreat here?" the wizard said.  "These are ill tidings indeed, yet not worse than those of Legolas.  He is missing still, you say?  And the Lady has sent her people to search for him?"

            "Yes, yes, and yes," Sam answered.  "We haven't heard anything yet, but Lady Galadriel said we'd know as soon as anyone came back with news.  Didn't anyone tell you that we'd come back?  Léhulai and Merry came here some days before we did."

            "I have not been inquiring as to the outside world much as of late," Gandalf admitted.  "I was resting and healing from my ordeal, and the Elves were kind to spare me such grievous tales as those coming from the outside.  I know that Sauron grows in power, but as long as the Ring is out of his grasp, the land will not fall completely into shadow."

            "I fear that the longer I delay, the harder my journey into Mordor will be," Frodo said gloomily.  

            "Do not fret so, Frodo, it ill befits a Baggins," Gandalf chided kindly.  "Your path is no more or less barred today than it was yesterday.  And you have one more ally restored to you today besides!"

            Frodo did not say it, but he thought that he would rather have both his missing allies returned.  He was glad indeed to see Gandalf alive, but his heart still worried for the brave Elf who had vanished into darkness just as the wizard had.  Frodo yawned.  "I am tired now, Gandalf.  May we all go to sleep, and think no more on our troubles till tomorrow?"

            "Yes, you should all sleep tonight," Gandalf said, rising and ducking out of the chamber.  He turned back to face them.  "I shall go back to the place where I have been sleeping for tonight, but perhaps I will stay with you tomorrow evening.  Good night, Frodo, Meriadoc, Samwise, and Peregrin.  I will see you at breakfast tomorrow!"  With that, the wizard pulled his hood up around his face and retreated into the darkness, and was gone.

            Frodo sagged down onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling.  The light-producing vines still shone, but their glow was fading as the night progressed.  "I hope that was not a dream of some sort," he mumbled drowsily, his eyes falling shut.  Sam said something in reply, but Frodo was already fast asleep.

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End of Chapter Five.  I like Gandalf's reintroduction a little better in my story, I think.  It was cruel to send Frodo off to Mordor still thinking that his old friend was dead!  Francine agreed with me on this, but I think she's biased…review, please!  


	6. Dark Tidings

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Six**

**Author: Katharine the Great**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Replies to reviews:**

AJ Matthews: Don't worry, Legolas will show up very soon, and in fine form indeed!!  

Raen: Francine thanks you for the lettuce, and no, she and I have never been to the City of the Galadhrim.  We do have some nice postcards, though, that were sent to us by our original characters (Lehulai, Evanen, Gilharad, et. al).  We agree that Sam is nummy!!

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Seven times the sun had risen and set since the Company's retreat into the Wood of Lothlórien, and still there was no word from the search parties sent out on behalf of the missing Legolas.  Those of the Fellowship took the opportunity to rest, glad for the temporary lull in the journey.  Frodo spent long periods of time sitting beneath the gold-laced boughs, humming with the Elves above him and contemplating the long trek ahead of him.  Sam and his fellow hobbits contrived ways to distract Frodo from his musings, for they all agreed that such fretting was unhealthy.  Frodo usually went along with their proposals, and he was glad for the diversions.

One such occasion, which occurred the morning after the hobbits' conversation with their mysterious guide, was the reintroduction of Aragorn, Gimli and Boromir to the recently reappeared Gandalf, now called the White.  The three were suitably amazed and delighted at his return.  Aragorn in particular was glad to learn that the wizard lived; and it was he who asked what troubles had befallen Gandalf after he had vanished into the great chasm beneath the Bridge of Khazad-dûm.

            Gandalf, though loathe to speak of his ordeal, told his friends briefly of his long plunge into the depths of Middle-earth, whereupon he had continued to battle with the fearsome Balrog.  The hobbits were especially awed at Gandalf's descriptions of the blistering fire and frigid water that he had passed through before finally defeating his foe on the mountain-top.  Gandalf also spoke of the great Eagle, Gwaihir the Windlord, who had borne him aloft and brought him to Lórien.  "And so I arrived here, just a short while past your departure," Gandalf concluded his tale, tapping the ground with his staff.  "I intended to follow after you when I had completed my time of rest and rebirth, but since you had the misfortune of being compelled to retreat, we met sooner than I expected." 

            "Surely that is a boon to outweigh any misfortune, Gandalf," Aragorn declared.  "Your absence was a pain that would not heal, no matter how severely our minds were distracted by hardship."

            "Nevertheless, Aragorn, you have showed great skill and courage in your leadership of this Fellowship," Gandalf said.  "You have all done well, indeed.  Even this tomfool of a Took is showing signs of usefulness!" he added, ruffling Pippin's unruly mop of curls. 

            "Do you intend to retake your rightful position at the head of the Company, Gandalf?" Aragorn asked boldly, and there was no trace of challenge in his tone; indeed, the man was more than willing to yield up his place of leadership to the white-clad wizard, if such was required.

            But Gandalf shook his head.  "Nay, Aragorn, that station belongs to you now.  As for me, I have other dealings that I intend to set about when I leave Lórien next."  

            Aragorn nodded solemnly.  "Then I shall give my best efforts to leading as capably as yourself," he said, "if that is possible."

Gandalf peered at the younger man, sitting straight and tall upon a smooth stone beneath a leafy mallorn-tree.  "It may be," he murmured to himself, and the others received the impression that he was not speaking only in response to Aragorn's oath.

  Frodo wondered what the far-seeing wizard had envisioned regarding Aragorn.  Gandalf had always been somewhat cryptic in his words, but since his bout with death at the hands of the Balrog he had become even more elusive in his meanings.  Frodo studied Gandalf's face, hoping to glean at least some idea of what he had perceived in Aragorn's future.  The wizard's naturally thoughtful expression revealed none of his deliberations, however, and Frodo did not possess the daring to inquire into the matter.

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Galadriel and Celeborn spoke to Frodo and the others twice more after their initial welcome.  The Lord and Lady were somewhat preoccupied with growing rumors of a potential new enemy from the south drawing near to Lórien.  The creature was described as a rider with ominous bearing, dressed in silver or white, and mounted on a swift gray horse.  It had been dubbed "the Silver Rider" by those who had first glimpsed it racing across the plains of the Wold of Rohan, though whether the appellation was at all indicative of a relationship between the newcomer and the Black Riders of Minas Morgul, no one could say.      

The Silver Rider might have been dismissed as pure fiction but for the word from the southern borders of Lórien.  The Elves keeping watch in the southernmost regions of the Golden Wood had been hearing whispers of a silver phantom that rode alone beneath the night sky, when glistening Ithil and her array of bright stars caused the apparition's garments to flicker and gleam like the Sea's waves.  Those moonlit appearances lent yet another moniker to the creature; _Mor-celeb it was called in the Sindarin tongue, which translated into Westron meant "Black Silver."  Though Mor-celeb (as the Elves were wont to refer to the creature) had done nothing directly threatening—indeed, it had done little else but ride without cease for days on end—those caught in its wake were said to have experienced a sudden attack of tremors, like those caused by icy winds or tidings of great disaster.  _

            Of these reports only Aragorn was told, and he in turn discussed them privately with Gandalf.  Gimli, Boromir and the hobbits remained ignorant of the news, for it was decided that the threat was not so clear that they should be burdened with it.  And so Frodo and the majority of his fellow travelers passed the seven days in relative peace, ever-hopeful that they would be summoned to hear glad news brought by the search parties.  The hobbits ate and slept and chattered beneath the great leafy boughs of the mallorn-trees, and were the source of much discussion and soft laughter among the Elves in the gold-trimmed boughs above.  Gimli the Dwarf remained mostly quiet, but his silence was due to worry for his lost friend, and so no one begrudged him his lack of conversation.  Boromir of Gondor spent much time by himself, gazing to the south with his fingers tightly intertwined.  He, too, was unusually taciturn, especially in the presence of either Frodo or Gandalf.  

            On the eighth evening of the Company's sojourn in Lórien, a loud call was sent up among the trees; the search parties had returned from their long hunt for signs of Legolas' whereabouts.  Frodo and Sam practically flew to the Hall of Lórien, where they had been summoned to hear the searchers' findings.  They met Merry, Pippin, and Gandalf along the way, and the five of them reached the Hall with its oval receiving chamber in a short amount of time.

            Lord Celeborn and Galadriel were seated in their places, as were the other Elven  elders of Lothlórien.  Frodo and his kin slipped into good vantage points, while Gandalf and Boromir made their way to Aragorn's side.  Gimli was there as well, his expression as anxious as was possible for a Dwarf.  A group of tall Elves stood before the Lord and Lady, all dressed in the familiar gray cloaks and quivers of Lorien's folk.  Their clothes were worn from much travel, but they all comported themselves gracefully despite their fatigue.  

Also present was a contingent of strangely dressed Elves; they wore clothing and long riding cloaks of deep green and gray and brown, and their hoods were thrown back to reveal waves of golden hair.  They stood apart from the people of Lórien, Frodo saw, and he surmised that they must be folk from another Elven realm.  He was surprised, too, at the presence of a fair Elf maiden who stood at the forefront of the foreign Elven delegation.  Her flaxen hair cascaded down her back, and was swept away from her elegantly shaped brow by means of two wrought silver combs.  Her dress was of the palest green inscribed with delicate silver script, and gathered at the waist with a belt of twined silver strands.  The garment was overlaid with a long gray-silver cloak clasped at the throat with a brooch of silver leaves.

            "Do you see the strange Fair Folk over there?" Sam whispered to Frodo, breaking into the other hobbit's thoughts.  "They're dressed like Legolas was, don't you think?  All that green and brown with the silver trimmin'?"

            Frodo nodded with sudden understanding.  "Yes, I think you're right," he answered soberly.  "They must be some of the Elves sent out by Legolas' father, as Aragorn said."  

            The murmuring in the chamber quieted as Celeborn and Galadriel rose to greet the searchers native to Lórien.  They spoke in their own tongue for several moments, and then Celeborn changed his speech to Westron for the benefit of those present who could not understand Elvish.  "As there are many here who are anxious for what news you bring, Gilharad, I would ask that you begin your report without delay," Celeborn said.

            A tall Elf with dark gray eyes and finely boned features stepped forward and bowed slightly.  "As you wish, my Lord and Lady."  He drew himself up to his full height and said, "We began our search at the place where Prince Legolas was last seen by his companions, on the western bank of the Anduin River near Sarn Gebir's great Rapids.  The earth was mauled so that we could see no footprints save those of many horses, but we did find a bow and two arrows crushed into the mud."

            Two of the Elves standing nearby came forth, carefully unwrapping light packages bound up in gray-green cloth.  Contained within the bundles were what appeared to be some collections of mud-encrusted sticks, but Frodo's heart sank as he looked upon the contents.  He recognized the shattered pieces of the great bow given to Legolas by Lady Galadriel herself, and the thin shafts of Elven arrows were apparent to everyone present.  A groan rose in the throats of the elders of Lórien, all of whom had seen the bow at its presentation to Legolas. 

            Galadriel's lovely eyes were mournful, but her voice was steady.  "Say on, Gilharad.  What other tidings have you to give?"

            "We saw no other sign of the prince at the spot where his weapons lay," Gilharad continued.  "Some of those searching found the recent trail of a large party of Orcs leading away from the area, and also a few hairs of the same hue as Legolas' caught on a tree branch alongside the Orc-path.  Therefore, we pursued the Orcs, thinking that they had come upon Legolas and taken him from the River's edge.  The trail led west, and then turned sharply northward when it passed through the Gap of Rohan."

            At that, Gandalf gave a start.  "That would seem to put the Orcs bearing Legolas on a sure route toward Isengard and Orthanc!" he said, and only his furrowed brow betrayed his alarm.

            Gilharad the Elf nodded grimly.  "Yes, Mithrandir, and that is the place we were led to in our pursuit.  We could go no further than the outer reaches of the plain of Isengard, for our numbers were few compared to the enemy hordes toiling beneath the Tower."  His eyes flashed with bitter anger.  "Had I but commanded an army and not a search party, we would have thrown Orthanc to the ground on behalf of Legolas.  But alas! we were forced to return with only these grievous reports instead of the son of Thranduil."

Frodo felt numb, as though every muscle and bone in his body had frozen at one time.  Saruman the White, lord of Orthanc, had grievously betrayed Middle-earth, even going so far as to imprison Gandalf and breed up a monstrous army for the Dark Lord.  The thought of gentle, light-hearted Legolas in such a creature's clutches was horrifying.  Frodo looked across the assembled Elf-lords and saw that Gandalf's face was deeply lined with distress.  He had not told them any specifics regarding his time in captivity at Isengard's Tower, but Frodo could guess that Saruman had shown little kindness to his prisoner.  What worse fate awaited Legolas, who was not a wizard but instead a Wood-elf?

"Thank you, Gilharad," Celeborn said, and his ageless visage reflected deep understanding of Gilharad's fury at being powerless to give immediate aid to the Elven prince.  "You and your company are given leave to rest and refresh yourselves, for I see that you are worn from your journey.  Be assured, however, that you may be called upon to perform other services in the near future."

            Gilharad and those standing with him bowed lowly.  "Thank you, my Lord," Gilharad said.  "We stand ready to serve in whatever capacity we may."  With a final bow to the Lord and Lady, he and his assemblage turned and exited the Hall in a swirl of gray cloaks.  

            Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel turned their faces next to the party of strangers, who approached at their silent summons and bowed in greeting.  "Salutations from the kingdom of Mirkwood and from His Majesty Thranduil," said one of the male Elves in lightly accented Westron, taking his cue from the previous conversation and refraining from using his native speech.  "I am Hithílion, an advisor to the king."

            "Welcome to Lothlórien, Hithílion of Greenwood," Galadriel said warmly, using the name by which Mirkwood had been known before the dark shadow of Mordor had fallen upon it.  "As was said to Legolas, it is too rare to see our northern kindred in the Wood."

            "Yes, great Lady," Hithílion agreed.  "It is indeed unfortunate that the beauty of this place is shadowed by the circumstances of our arrival.  The news gathered by Gilharad and the searchers of Lórien was a blow to our hearts, for we were sent out by a distraught father rather than a royal monarch.  Thranduil was terribly grieved to learn of his son's disappearance, as were all who dwell in his household," the Wood-elf added grimly.  

            Celeborn nodded once, his face sympathetic.  "I have no doubt of that.  We shall do all in our power to retrieve Legolas, I assure you, for he is dear to several present here."

            The lady Elf of Mirkwood spoke for the first time, and her voice was clear and resonant like water running over smooth stones.  "To whom is Prince Legolas dear, my Lady?" she asked.

            Galadriel focused her intense gaze upon the Elf maid.  "You have the bearing and insignia of the royal house," she remarked.  "And there is much of Thranduil in your appearance.  You are Legolas' kin, are you not?"

            The Elf maiden bowed, and several locks of her golden hair spilled over her shoulders.  "I am Lelemir, daughter of Thranduil and sister to Legolas, Lady Galadriel," she replied.  "I came to aid in the recovery of my brother."  She glanced about the chamber.  "News of Legolas has but seldom reached the halls of my father as of late.  I did not know that he had gained such friends among the Galadhrim, and that is the reason for my question.  I should very much like to meet those with whom Legolas has spent his time away from our home."

            "You shall meet them, Princess Lelemir," Celeborn said, "but after you and your party have rested and eaten.  Lórien is a place of refuge for the weary and burdened, and in particular for those whose hearts are weighted by troubles.  There will be time enough for introductions when you have eased your travel-weariness."

            Lelemir cocked an eyebrow, a gesture that was startlingly reminiscent of Legolas' occasionally saucy manner.  "With respect, my Lord, the weight I bear is that of fear for my brother's life.  No amount of rest, however sweet it may be, can dispel such a burden." 

            Frodo was amazed at her boldness.  He half-expected the Lord and Lady to take offense at the slightly impertinent words, but to his surprise Galadriel laughed softly.  It was as though someone had brushed against a collection of wind chimes.  "So like your father, Lelemir," the Lady of the Wood said with a smile.  "More so than your brother, I daresay.  He was the ideal of compliance during his stay here."

            "I mean no offense, my Lady, my Lord," Lelemir said somewhat contritely, though her regal demeanor was in no way lessened.

            "None is taken, Princess," Celeborn told her.  The Elf-lord's gray eyes reflected mild bemusement.  "It is charming, in a way, to see Thranduil's oftentimes less than mild temperament refined and softened in his daughter.  You have retained your father's best traits, and turned them to your advantage."

            Lelemir inclined her head, and Frodo could see her eyes sparkling with the unexpected praise.  "Thank you, my Lord and Lady."  

            "Very well, then.  It shall be as you wish, Lelemir," Galadriel decided.  "I will arrange for you to speak with your brother's traveling companions and friends.  Perhaps the activity will sufficiently tire you that you may at last rest yourself."

            The princess of Mirkwood gave a smile in return.  It was not a large smile, as her cheer was tempered by worry for Legolas, but the expression lit up her face and made her a beauty to rival most other women.  Privately, Frodo still held Galadriel to be the most fair of all creatures to walk Middle-earth.  Lelemir, to her credit, possessed a measure of royal grace and carriage that seemed to be unique to the noble houses of the Elves.  He found himself looking forward to meeting with the sister of Legolas.

            "I wonder if she's anything like Legolas," Sam whispered under his breath, nudging Frodo.

            Frodo had no reply; he only bobbed his eyebrows at Sam to indicate that he himself had no idea what Lelemir might be like.  He supposed that they would find out upon speaking with her.  He glanced at Gimli, and suddenly worried that Legolas' sister would dismiss as folly the friendship that had grown between the Dwarf and the Elf during their time together.  

            As he looked closely at the princess, however, Frodo doubted that she would be so callous and high-handed.  She came from the same stock as Legolas, and so was likely to be somewhat similar in manner.  Legolas had distrusted Gimli at the outset of their journey, in accordance with the custom of his people.  The son of Gloin had felt the same. Yet in the midst of their experiences respect and good faith had developed between the two, and the greater part of the animosity chafing at them had faded.  Hence, Frodo imagined that Lelemir would come to value Gimli just as her brother had. 

            "The Sun has set," Celeborn was saying, "and it is time for the evening meal to be taken.  I invite you, Princess Lelemir, to join Galadriel and myself for the meal.  Also I would like for the members of the Fellowship to attend, so as to honor the wishes of Legolas' sister and introduce her to those with whom her brother has traveled so long."

            Aragorn stepped slightly out from among the elders and bowed.  If he was surprised by the Lord's offer, he did not show it.  Rather, he looked as noble and dignified as any of the Elven lords there assembled.  "On behalf of the Company, Lord Celeborn, Lady Galadriel, I accept your invitation," he said.

            Lelemir gave Aragorn a long glance, apparently fascinated by the appearance of the one who spoke for her brother's companions.  Frodo wondered if she was surprised to see that Aragorn was a Man, and not an Elf.  "Thank you, Lord and Lady," she said, turning back to face them.  "I would be honored to join you for the meal."

            "This Council will reconvene tomorrow in the afternoon, when the Daystar has passed her zenith," Galadriel said.  "We will hence decide upon a course of action regarding Legolas."  Her clear gaze drifted around the chamber and came to rest upon Frodo.  "We must also seek a path for the Bearer," she said more softly.  "The Quest must continue, ere the Dark Lord strengthens beyond our ability to conduct his treasure to its destruction."

            Frodo shivered a little at her words.  He had been reflecting on that very possibility during the past days.  He feared what would happen if Mordor's forces overran Middle-earth and thereby cut off any hope of transporting the Ring to the annihilating flames of Mount Doom.  Frodo closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, willing himself to remain calm and wait for Galadriel and Gandalf and Aragorn to orchestrate a plan.  For though he was the Ring-bearer, he was only a hobbit, and his skills did not extend to making strategic, secretive strategies.  He sat so for some time, and one of Bilbo's verses came to him: _No person ever failed, who let the stronger beat the trail._

            "Mister Frodo?" said Sam's voice.

            Frodo looked up and saw his friend standing nearby with Merry and Pippin.  "What is it, Sam?"

            "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but everyone's leaving for supper," Sam said.  "I didn't want to interrupt your thinking, but I figured you'd want to eat with Lady Galadriel and the rest."

            "Yes, Frodo, you can brood later, when we've some food in us!" Pippin declared impatiently.

            Frodo stood and stretched at length, chuckling.  "All right, I'm coming.  Pippin, you act as though your stomach will climb out of your mouth and go in search of a meal on its own!"

            The younger hobbit sniffed.  "It might do just that," he sighed. 

            Frodo shook his head in amusement.  "Let's get to dinner, then, before we're missed."

            They made their way to Gandalf's side, for the wizard was just then falling in with the assemblage who were to dine with the Lord and Lady of Lórien.  None of them were aware that even as they walked up to the dining hall, a figure swathed in silvery white garments was mounting the crest of a hill to the near south of the Golden Wood.  The keen eyes of the sentries posted at the southern border swept the darkening horizon, and Mor-celeb's shimmering silhouette was sighted…

            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Chapter Six.  How about those original Elf names of ours, huh?  You know, they actually mean things in the Elven language (I researched a bunch to get some authentic-sounding names); if anyone wants to know what they mean, stick a note on the review and tell me!  I'll include the translations at the end of Chapter Seven, which is well on its way! 

**Note: Bilbo's little piece of wisdom was crafted by myself alone, but I daresay that Master Tolkien's words far outshine my own…    **


	7. All Under the Stars

**Title:** The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Seven

**Author:** Katharine the Great

**Summary:** "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell

**Notes:** This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  

**Disclaimer:** Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!

**Replies to reviews:**

AJ Matthews: Well, now, there's an interesting thought…Aragorn gets into a fight with Lasselanta…hmmm, have to give that some thought…thank you for your continual reviews! :) And thank you for all your concern about Legolas.  It's so heartening when people care about the characters Francine and I write for.  Watch for major other-character angst, though, 'cause it's coming!

MarigoldG: Welcome to my itty bitty "The Weeping Wraith" fandom!  I'm SO glad you're enjoying it.  I especially appreciated your chapter-by-chapter reviews and the way you specifically addressed the items you liked the best. :)  Francine the Plotbunny literally did a back flip when she read your reviews of our work…I would have done the same, but my back has flexibility issues (one of them being that it has no flexibility at all, Lol).  Thank you, and keep 'em coming! 

Raen: As always, you are a prompt reviewer and a detailed one.  Thank you so much!  And I can hear your excitement crackling like a live wire here!  I'm so happy to have acquired you as a fan.  Francine says hi, and also, "Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?"  Lol :)  Thank you!  

Now, without further ado, on to the story…

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            Night had fallen within the Wood with a shower of starlight.  Sparkling points of fleet-footed light winked merrily upon Middle-earth, and their glistening queen hung suspended in their midst with the appearance of a newly-crafted sickle.  The world had become a tableau of varying blue and black hues; somber indigo was the tint of those patches of grass that were bathed in bright Ithil's glow, and deep ebony were the trees and domiciles dotting the landscape.

            Within the great Hall of Lothlórien where Celeborn and Galadriel resided, however, everything was bathed in a gentle golden light that emanated from numerous hanging lamps.  The dining hall itself was a delight to Frodo and his kin, for though they had been inside once before upon their second arrival in Lórien, the place was so curious and fair an abode that it once again brought smiles to their troubled faces.  The ceiling was high and arched, and comprised of splendid bowed limbs that had been woven together and sealed against the sometimes damp weather in the forest.  A grand company of radiant coiled lamps hung from the warm-hued boughs and set the entire room ablaze with a soft golden sheen.  The lighting made the naturally luminous Elven folk seem to shine even more brightly.

            The table was circular, with a break in its round uniformity so as to allow for extra places within the circle.  The Lord and Lady took their places at the midpoint of the outer ring of seats, as was their custom.  Gandalf was at Celeborn's right; Lelemir of Mirkwood, to Galadriel's left.  Next to Lelemir was Hithílion, then Aragorn, Gimli, and Merry and Pippin.  Hithílion gave the Dwarf a long sideways glance, but said nothing.  Gandalf pulled Frodo to sit beside him, and of course Sam was next, with Boromir at the end.  

When everyone was arranged and seated, Celeborn spoke.  "Princess Lelemir, before you now are eight members of the Fellowship which departed from Rivendell.  Legolas your brother was the ninth."

            "Yes, my Lord," Lelemir said.  "Our father demanded a detailed report when he learned that Legolas was to accompany a _perian on a Quest of some sort."  Her light gray eyes held a familiar breed of curiosity as she glanced about the room.  "I have heard many names, but I know not to which of these they belong."_

            "I ask that the leader of the Company conduct the presentation of his fellows to Lady Lelemir, so that she may see and judge for herself the companions with whom Legolas has allied himself," Celeborn said gravely.

            Aragorn rose to his feet with uncommon grace, his gray cloak falling about his broad shoulders.  Frodo thought the Dúnadan so like in appearance to an Elf at that moment that Legolas' absence was felt all the more keenly.  The Elven prince had long been the merry heart of the Company, never downcast or perturbed by harsh weather or tidings of gloom.  His loss was palpable, most especially because of the arrival of his close kin.  

            Aragorn paced around to stand in the center of the circle created by the table.  He bowed slightly, then began his address.  "Greetings, Lady Lelemir of Mirkwood.  I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and bearer of Andúril; though many know me only as Strider of the Rangers."

            "The successor to the throne of Gondor," Lelemir remarked wonderingly.  "I did not know there was one of that line left alive.  How is it that I have not heard your true name mentioned in the tales brought by the King's messengers, heir of Isildur?"

            "I am the last of his line, my Lady.  It was deemed necessary that I keep my identity hidden from plain sight for the present," Aragorn told her.  "I have revealed myself to you in honor of Legolas, whom I consider a brother as well as a friend."  He turned to indicate Gandalf next, and his voice rang with deep admiration and respect.  "The great wizard Gandalf the White, who has but recently returned from what we thought to be his doom."

            "Ah, Aragorn, the daughter of Thranduil is no stranger to me," Gandalf said with a smile.  "Often in the past I have found occasion to visit the Great Wood.  I daresay the Elvenking's children become more delightful with each encounter."  

At that, Lelemir's fair face shone with a smile of fond remembrance.  Frodo wondered what memories she held of Gandalf the Gray, and whether she would be willing to share them at a later time.  Strangely, Legolas had not mentioned his presumably long association with the wizard called Mithrandir.  Frodo lowered his gaze in sorrow, wondering if he would ever have the chance to question his Elf friend on the subject.

            Aragorn continued in his introduction of the Company.  Lelemir gave Frodo a warm gaze when his name was spoken.  Frodo stood and bowed slightly in greeting, but he wondered if the princess knew that his was the Quest on which her brother had embarked, and that it was for his sake that Legolas had been captured by the enemy.  The thought brought with it a harsh pang of guilt.  Frodo was somewhat cheered, however, to see Sam Gamgee blush and duck his head at Lelemir's smile.  Merry and Pippin were as cordial as they could make themselves, but their lack of experience made their attempts at refined speech more comical than genteel.  Nevertheless, Lelemir was thoroughly charmed.  Boromir's greeting befitted his nobility, although he did not make nearly the impression that the young hobbits had.

When Aragorn spoke of Gimli, there was a marked pause.  Frodo's heart sank within him as Hithílion and Lelemir focused their intense gazes upon the Dwarf.  As Elves, they had been ingrained from youth with a severe dislike of Gimli's people.  Frodo had hoped that Legolas was not the only one of his folk with a flexible nature, but now it seemed as though he might well be.  

            Finally Lelemir spoke.  "Gimli, son of Glóin, you are the Dwarf whose friendship with the prince of Mirkwood is still a subject for concern within my father's halls, are you not?"

            Gimli schooled his expression and politely inclined his stout head.  "I see not how it could be any other, my Lady."

            "Is that concern warranted?" Lelemir asked with a cool air. 

            "No, my Lady, it is not," Gimli replied.  "I cherish your brother as a dear friend, and my heart consumes itself more with each day that he remains lost to us."

            "How feels Prince Legolas about you, son of Glóin?" Hithílion asked abruptly.

            "He is a worthy friend to me as well, Master Elf," Gimli responded, much less graciously than he had been to the princess.  "He has saved my life on many an occasion.  It was for my sake as well as that of these others that he sacrificed his own safety on the bank of the River."

            Hithílion and Lelemir traded fleeting looks, and the former turned his gaze to where Celeborn and Galadriel sat impassively observing the exchange.  Hithílion spoke a sentence in light, rapid Elvish.  His brow was furrowed in consternation.  Celeborn replied in kind, nodding slightly.  Frodo could not understand their speech, but he trusted that the Lord of Lórien was of a gracious mindset toward Gimli; after all, the Dwarf had entered the Golden Wood only with the permission of Celeborn and Galadriel.

            Lelemir listened to the elder Elf's answer, and then her bright gaze swung back round to meet Gimli's.  "Very well then," she said slowly.  "My brother is quick of wit and slow to trust, and he has been raised with the same estimation of Dwarves that I have been taught.  Therefore if he considers you to be a good companion, Gimli, I cannot deem you an enemy.  Neither, however, are you my friend as of yet.  Whether that may be amended remains to be seen."

            Gimli bowed once again.  "I understand, my Lady.  However, it is my hope that I will find means by which I might prove my allegiance to you ere we part ways."

            "There may indeed exist such a method, Master Dwarf," Lelemir said considerately.  She turned her attention to Aragorn.  "Thank you, Aragorn son of Arathorn, for your kind service."

            The Dúnadan bowed, saying only, "You are welcome, Lady Lelemir."

            With that, the introductions were completed.  Aragorn returned to his place, and the food was served.  The hall soon was filled with the sound of conversation.  Frodo watched the relations between Hithílion and Lelemir and Gimli closely, for he was eager to see friendship grow between Legolas' sister and the Dwarf.  It seemed to Frodo, however, that Hithílion was opposed to such a notion.  While Lelemir spoke politely to Gimli, Hithílion refused to look at or speak to the Dwarf.  Gimli, for his part, made no effort to remedy the disregard.

            Frodo sighed to himself and turned his eyes back to his plate.  Perhaps Hithílion was simply too old and too used to distrusting Dwarves to so easily put faith in Gimli.  Discerning the age of an Elf was almost impossible, however, so Frodo had no way of knowing if his guess was correct.  He hoped that Hithílion and Lelemir alike would come to see Gimli's worth, just as Legolas had.      

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Elsewhere, to the far south of the City where the Lord and Lady dined with their guests, the sentries of Lórien kept their farseeing gazes riveted upon the shimmering figure that waited motionless upon a distant hill.  Mor-celeb, the Silver Rider of grave report and as yet nebulously defined menace, had appeared but moments before.  The creature did not approach any further; nevertheless, the Elves of the watch felt compelled to attend closely to Mor-celeb's presence, for the Golden Wood had long murmured of imminent danger.   

            One of the sentries spoke softly to his fellows in their own tongue.  He would ride swiftly to the great City and warn the Lord and Lady that a creature of disturbing rumor had arrived at the border.  The others agreed, for they were of a sufficient number to tend the border even with the loss of one.  Leaping nimbly astride a horse stationed nearby, the messenger hastened away into the deepening shadows of night.  

Those who remained turned their bright gazes back to their task, and they waited thus for many hours.  Mor-celeb remained where it was for the greater part of the night, unmoving.  The Elves of Lórien concentrated their focus upon the figure, and every now and again they shuddered to themselves with inexplicable chill.  The usual good cheer among the sentries had been replaced by grim foreboding, though they could not discern the cause.  Elves were not a naturally superstitious folk, nor did they fear strange specters as did the Men and Dwarves and Hobbits of Middle-earth.  Yet Mor-celeb disquieted their spirits as few things had the power to do.

The Silver Rider disappeared back over the hill from whence it had come ere the first rays of morning touched the land.  None of those Elves who had witnessed its arrival could say what its purpose had been upon that hill.  Their rare spell of unease lifted with the Rider's departure.  The sentries glanced at each other with curious expressions tainted with concern, but the sounds of quiet song soon filled the trees once again and washed away much of their lingering trepidation.  The Lord and Lady would soon know of the creature lurking at the southern border.

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The night was a time of shadow, when the forces of Mordor were strongest.  Orcs ran free beneath the jet sky; and other creatures, lesser known varieties of Sauron's servants, crept among the still trees and dwellings strewn about the realms of Elves and Men.

No night-shaded creature or structure, however, could rival the oppressive darkness of the Nine, the fell servants of Sauron.  They were without equal in the ranks of the Dark One, for they bore the Nine Rings; those cursed objects which had perverted them and changed them from great leaders of Men into formless specters of Mordor.  They rode midnight steeds, swathed in black robes and gauntlets and boots, carrying out the wishes of their master.  Their voices had been reduced to little more than a scathing hiss, which they exercised only in forming the Black Speech—the tongue given them by Sauron Himself—and also the hideous piercing wails associated with their kind.  Their presence alone inflicted unspeakable terror upon the hearts of those unfortunate enough to attract their attention.    

The Lord of the Nazgûl sat tall upon his mount, clutching the reins with both clawed hands.  He gazed through faintly glowing eyes to the north, toward the wooded sanctuary of Lothlórien.  It was one of the only strongholds that remained completely free of Sauron's influence.  The Nazgûl King knew that the Elves within had only so long to remain so; they would fall, just as all others had and all others would.  Lórien and the hidden valley of Rivendell would fall into darkness, in the same way as had the great forest of Greenwood.  The Dark Lord would emerge victorious at the end. 

Now the Nazgûl felt the call of their master.  It sang in each filament of their shapeless bodies, urging them to obey His commands.  The Lord of the Nine lifted his head and looked to the southeast, to the vast plains of Mordor and the Dark Tower of Barad-dûr, where the Sauron's black spirit resided.  _Return!_ came the directive, and the Nazgûl halted where they were, listening solely to the voice of their dark sovereign.  _Return, it said again, __return to My land.  Return to the Tower.  Return!_

            Without a single word of discourse, without even a moment's hesitation, the Nine turned their steeds to the south and raced across the earth with impossible speed.  They gave not a single thought to the Ringbearer, for they knew without a doubt that their master would see to the return of His treasure in His own fashion.  And so they fled from the region, without so much as a whisper to alert those in Lórien as to their departure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Chapter Seven.  I know, this was kind of a slower chapter, but I had to do some setting up of character relationships and all that!  I PROMISE, the next chapter will quicken up the pace.  

**Name Translations: **Below is a listing of all the names of my original Elf characters so far (in order of appearance), a short recap of who they are, and what their names mean.  Raen wanted to know. :)

1) Léhulai (Elf of Lórien, took Merry to Lórien ahead of the Company after the hobbit was struck by an Orc-arrow) = this name is a Quenya derivative that contains the word "green," but the actual translation of his name is unclear.  It may be a combination of several familial names.

2) Evanen (Elf of Lórien, greeted and hosted the Company the first night after their retreat into Lórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that contains the word "water," but the actual translation of his name is unclear.

3) Lasselanta (name given by Saruman to Legolas Greenleaf when he became a Wraith under Saruman's control) = this name is a Quenya word that means "leaf-fall."  It is also used to describe the fourth season of the Elven nature-calendar.

4) Mor_-celeb (name given to Lasselanta by those who spotted him riding in the night on his way to Lórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "black-silver."  It refers to the way his cloak shimmers in the moon and star light as he rides._

5) Gilharad (Elf of Lórien, leader of the search parties sent out by Galadriel to find evidence as to Legolas' fate) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "south-star."

6) Hithílion (Elf of Mirkwood, advisor to Thranduil who accompanied the search parties sent out by King Thranduil to help find Legolas) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "moon-mist."  It was probably originally spelled "Hithílien," but his family may have altered the spelling slightly for creativity's sake.

7) Lelemir (Elf of Mirkwood, daughter to Thranduil and sister to Legolas; she accompanied the search parties sent out by her father to find Legolas) = this name is a Quenya derivative that contains the word "jewel," but the full translation of her name is unclear.

Review, please!


	8. Fateful Decisions

**Title:** The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Eight

**Author:** Katharine the Great

**Summary:** "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell

**Notes:** This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  

**Disclaimer:** Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!

**Replies to reviews:**

AJ Matthews: Oh, leave those poor fingernails alone! Lol :)  Thank you for your prayers; I am sure the Valar will hear them (but Francine might not, bweheheh).  Enjoy the continuation!

Jan: The answer to your query was so long, I sent you an email, but for anyone else who was interested, here's the short answer.  Chapter One's line, "Dark as it was, the Elf's hair seemed to shine under the starlight," refers mostly to the innate sheen that all the Firstborn possess.  Elves are said to constantly "walk in starlight" and all that.  Jan rightly pointed out that I couldn't be referring to Legolas' blonde hair, as it was too dark out to see any color.  Thanks, Jan, and I hope you continue reading with as much enthusiasm for details!

Mindel: Welcome and thank you!  I appreciated your comment about my uniqueness…muchas gracias!  Keep enjoying!

PepperVL: As I said to Mindel above, thank you and welcome to the fic!  I'm glad you love Legolas—I do, too, although this fic is turning out to be a very "all-character sweep" type instead of a one-character bash.  Oh, well, Legolas is still tasty.  Enjoy!

Raen: Hello again!  I'm sorry I made you edgy.  Oh, heck, no I'm not. :) Lol.  Francine says thanks for the Grey Poupon, and she is anxious to know if her radishes are soft!  She'll eat them even half-rotten!  With perhaps some French dressing.  Thanks!

**Further other notes: **If you haven't read "The Silmarillion" by JRR Tolkien, most of the beginning of this chapter won't make much sense.  If this is the case for you, GO READ THE BOOK!!!  It is excellent, and provides the rich and tumultuous history of Middle-earth.  Read it!

Now, on with the tale…

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            In the heart of the Golden Wood there was a small, lovingly tended garden.  It was ringed by a high green hedge, but lay open to the stars, and therein grew green plants and flowers of many hues.  Here there were nodding _niphredil and _elanor_ blooms, and also the small yet numerous _cul-aglar_ blossoms of red-gold hue.  It was said that such flora sprang to life in the footsteps of Galadriel, the White Lady of the Wood, for it was she who sustained the garden.  The evening star shone down more brightly on that place than on any other in the whole of Middle-earth._

            Galadriel lifted her clear gaze to the night sky and looked upon that star, the brightest of its fellows.  Mighty Gil-Estel it was, the Star of High Hope.  Its songs were many, as it was greatly beloved by the Firstborn.  Known by many as the Morning and Evening Star, it was said to be the very ship and person of Eärendil the Mariner, husband of Elwing and father of Elrond and Elros the Half-elven.  Ancient lore recounted his bold journey across the Sea in search of the Undying Lands and the mercy of the Valar within, and of how both Eärendil and his ship, the Vingilot, were set in the sky by the Lords of Valinor as a sign of hope to the oppressed.  And so the Flammifer of Westernesse sailed the dark sea of heaven, casting his white fire down into the eyes and hearts of the Elves who dwelt in the lands of Arda.   

            "_Aglaran elena," Galadriel murmured.  _Glorious wanderer of the stars_.  Her daughter Celebrían had wed Elrond Peredhel, the son of Eärendil.  Now Celebrían was gone over the Sea, and Elrond remained lord of Imladris; but Galadriel hearkened ever more deeply to the brilliance of Gil-Estel.  She had lived endless ages, and though time did not touch the Firstborn as it did mortal Men, she felt the years more keenly with each passing day.  Banished she was from the blessed realm of Valinor; still, hope dwelt within her that she might yet return with the pardon of Eru the One.  She longed to abide once more with those of her kin that she had left behind in her desire to form a realm of her own within the land of Arda.  Lórien, though wondrous even by Elven standards, was but a shadow compared to the bliss and glory of Valinor._

            The silver basin that stood within Galadriel's garden was filled with the glimmering water that flowed from the fountain nearby.  The Queen of the Galadhrim cast her gaze down into her Mirror, whose light sprang from the luminous beams of Gil-Estel.  It rather reminded her of the light of the Two Trees of Valimar, which had shone with glorious radiance before their poisoning at the hands of Morgoth Bauglir.  Galadriel remembered well that day, when golden Laurelin and silver Telperion had been snuffed out beneath the black death brought by Morgoth and the hideous she-spider Ungoliant.  The quenching of the light of the Trees had set into the motion the events which had led to the flight of the Noldor, Galadriel's people, to Arda.  

The Mirror's surface rippled but once as Galadriel looked into its depths.  At first there was nothing, only a reflection of the black sky above and its glittering points of light.  Then images began to form, drawn from the primeval knowledge and endless sight of the stars themselves.  Places both familiar and strange were glimpsed, times of peace and times of war, endless births and deaths, many things great and terrible that rested only in the memory and lore of the Eldar.

            _Things that were.  The past was unchangeable and immovable; its hand was the guide by which the wise were moved._

            The images faded and were replaced by a brilliant white light, the same that had so violently invaded her mind and heart upon her few recent visits to the Mirror.  Galadriel very nearly drew back, but the light did her no harm, and so she stayed.  The light was soon joined by the wailing of a voice filled with endless grief and hatred.  Then other voices joined in, some more vehement, some softer, and all mixed with pain and sorrow untold.  But Galadriel knew not to whom the voices belonged, nor why they cried so.  

            The light disappeared to reveal the silver figure that she had seen many a time since the Company's first departure from Lórien.  The creature's visage was never plainly visible, and yet Galadriel felt a cold wind on the nape of her neck as she contemplated the glistening robes and fierce gray steed that bore the rider.  She had oft wondered if it might be the very Mor-celeb of whom rumor told.  Such was not revealed to her, however, and so she kept vigil though she did not know what threat she sensed.

            The Mirror was quiet afterward, and images drifted across of the sleeping Halflings, of Elessar lying under the stars, of Gimli and Boromir, those so deeply entwined with the fate of the Ring and therefore the fate of the earth itself.  Gandalf remained hidden to her sight, as always before he had been, for the Istari were not so easily revealed.  Also Legolas the Elf was absent from view; and now Galadriel's sorrow welled up, for she had hoped to discern the young Prince's fate within the Mirror.

            _Things that are.  The present, ever upon the living, constantly in motion all about them.  Change was wrought swiftly, and often without foresight on the part of those whose deeds shaped the past to come._

            Galadriel saw a glimmering of new light then.  It was not white, but red.  Dread sprang up within her.  She knew the vision's portent even before it had fully formed.  It was the Great Eye of Sauron, wreathed with flame and slit with an empty blackness.  Its terrible fire grew to encompass the whole of the Mirror.  The Dark Lord sought to know the thoughts of the White Lady, but her mind was as yet closed to his, for he had not the One Ring.  The Eye roved back and forth; it was seeking the bearer of the Ring, the young hobbit lying asleep within the Wood.  Galadriel hardened her resolve against the Enemy.  So long as she and her kin could prevent such, Sauron would never regain the Ring, nor would he bring harm to the Halfling who carried it.

            With that vision, the Mirror faded to clear once again.  The stars glimmered upon the surface of the water.  Galadriel drew away and stood still in thought.  The breeze pulled gently at her fair tresses and white robes.  Many things would be decided at the Council the next day.  She would need all of her wisdom and experience, and also the foresight granted to her, in order to send those under her care into those places and times in which they were needed.  Galadriel breathed a soft prayer into the sky, and then turned and retired to her home in the trees.

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            "Why, Peregrin Took, your face is so long this morning it's practically dragging on the ground!" Merry declared.  

            "What's worrying you, Mr. Took?  Did you have a nightmare?" Sam asked.

            "No," Pippin said forlornly.  "It's just that I have the feeling we're to leave here soon, what with the Council meeting today and all.  I don't want to go."

            "Well, we can't very well stay here forever, 'specially not with that Ring Frodo's carrying," Merry said.  He clapped his friend on the shoulder.  "Come come, Pip, cheer up!  We'll see what the Lord and Lady say today.  Things aren't all that bad.  Am I right, Frodo?"

            Frodo forced a smile onto his face, though he too was most unhappy at the thought of leaving the peace of Lórien.  "Yes, Merry, I believe so.  The sooner we rid the world of the Ring, the sooner we can all go home."  And Frodo tried with all his might to believe his own words, for he had as of late fallen into despondency regarding what he saw as his probable death within the land of Mordor.  The Ring whispered to him, beckoning his hand to take it and claim it for his own.  Frodo ignored it as best he could; though the air of Lórien and the sweet melodies of the Elves in the trees helped to smother the Ring's influence for the present.

            "Mr. Frodo?  Are you all right?" Sam asked concernedly.

            Frodo sighed.  It seemed to him that the longer he remained with Samwise, the harder it was to conceal his feelings from the other hobbit.  "Yes, Sam.  I think I may be somewhat reluctant to leave here, as well, but I shan't allow that to stop me from going.  I want this cursed thing destroyed!" he said vehemently, and clutched ever more fiercely at the chain about his neck.

            Sam nodded sincerely.  "We all do, sir.  We all do.  Like the Gaffer used to say, 'Samwise,' he'd say, 'put things to rights, Samwise Gamgee, and not another thought till you do!'"

            Frodo laughed to hear one of Sam's father's old adages roll so easily from his friend's lips.  "I declare, Samwise, one day you will become the Gaffer, down to the last proverb!"

            Sam shrugged sheepishly.  "He says an awful lot, my da does.  I can't very well help it if he's right a lot too, can I?"

            Frodo laughed again and slipped his earth-colored vest on over his cream shirt, his troubles fading for the moment.  "No, I suppose not.  Come on then, lads, let's go find breakfast, shall we?  I could eat my whole weight and more besides!"

            At that, Pippin gave a hurrah.  "Well said, Frodo!" he exclaimed.  "Myself, I've never been so hungry in all my life!"

            "You're not fooling anyone, Pip," Merry told him.  "Everyone knows you're a pit without a bottom when it comes to mealtimes.  You've been this hungry ever since the day you were born!"

            "Still, I'll probably fall over and faint if I don't eat something soon," Pippin replied with a sniff.  

            "Ah, there you four are!" Gandalf declared, coming upon them quite suddenly.  "I have been looking for you.  I expected I would find you at breakfast, not here jabbering when there's food to be had!"

            "We were just on our way to eat, Mr. Gandalf," Sam said.

            "Right, so let's be off!" Pippin chimed in.

            "Wait just a moment, you," Gandalf said, and he caught the collar of Pippin's coat and pulled him backward to stand with his fellow hobbits.  "You may be interested to know that a rider from Rivendell arrived early this morning, sent by Lord Elrond himself."

            Frodo was surprised and also glad, for he had come to love the house of Elrond and those who dwelt there.  "What is the rider's name?  Why has he come?"

            Gandalf began to walk, and he beckoned the four to accompany him.  "His name is Lord Alcarin, one of the Eldar and a contemporary of Glorfindel, whom you met upon your approach to Rivendell.  Elrond heard news of the return of the Nazgûl, and also of your retreat back to the Golden Wood.  He sent Alcarin to glean what word there is to be had of these events."

            "Does Master Elrond know that Legolas is trapped in the tower at Isengard?" Frodo asked softly.

            The wizard's eyes were creased with sadness.  "I do not know, but I can tell you that Elrond is farseeing in more ways than one.  If he does not know yet, he will soon."

            "What do you suppose will happen then?  Will anyone try to rescue Legolas?" Merry asked.

            "Why, Meriadoc Brandybuck, of course they will!" Gandalf harrumphed.  "The Elves do not take the capture of their own lightly, and much less so the seizure of a prince such as our friend.  Do not fear idleness on the part of the Elves!"  

            Presently the five of them came to one of the many public dining locales.  The Elves of Lórien had been instructed to see to the needs of the Company, for they had little means of obtaining their own food in the Wood.  Boromir and Gimli were there already, and they were glad to see the hobbits and Gandalf approaching.

            "Good morning, little masters, and also to you, Gandalf," Boromir said with a smile.  He offered Frodo a piece of fruit.  "Come and join us for breakfast, if you will."

            Frodo took the fruit.  "Thank you, and we will."

            Gandalf had already taken his meal with Aragorn in the early morning, and so while the others ate he told them stories of times past.  Frodo requested that the wizard tell them more about his early visits to Mirkwood.  Gimli and the others agreed, for their curiosity had been piqued by the rapport between Princess Lelemir and Gandalf at supper the night before.  

            Gandalf chuckled.  "Oh ho!  You want to hear a tale of Legolas and his sister when they were young and foolish, do you?  Ha!  There are many to choose from, I assure you; Legolas was quite the cheeky imp in his youth.  Lelemir is only two years his senior, and she was not much the better."

            Gimli laughed, and Frodo realized that he had not heard the Dwarf utter such a sound of cheer in many days.  "So, my friend was not always the proud and pristine creature that he has become!  Tell me, Gandalf, what childish pranks Legolas occupied himself with in his youth, so that when he returns I may have the advantage!"

            The wizard chuckled again.  "I have thought of one just for you, Master Dwarf, although I daresay that Legolas will pull out my beard and use it to string his bow if he learns that I spoke of it."

            "Tell us!  Tell us!" Merry and Pippin clamored simultaneously.

            "Hush, and I shall," Gandalf told them.  "Now, this tale takes place nigh on three thousand years in the past.  Legolas and Lelemir were twenty-seven and twenty-nine years old, respectively.  They had a reputation for being pranksters in those days, although their father adored them for some of their less embarrassing antics.  In truth, they were much like Meriadoc and Peregrin here, only more persistent in their tomfoolery.  On one of my more memorable visits, they decided to impersonate 'old Mithrandir'—as they called me then—and try to fool their father into thinking that they were me."  

Gandalf's eyes twinkled merrily as he recounted the tale.  "Lelemir was the older of the two, and so she was likely responsible for the original idea.  But Legolas always was the one with more cheek, and I suspect that he did most of the encouraging in their capers.  

"Somewhere those two acquired a long gray robe somewhat like mine, and also a tall hat and a long stick which they fashioned to resemble my staff.  Legolas was the smaller, so he balanced atop his sister's shoulders.  They put on the robe so that it covered Lelemir, and Legolas used a large clump of wisp-reed to mimic my hair and beard.  Then they took up the hat and staff, and they went to their father's court."

"Surely they were not admitted as you, Gandalf!" Frodo gasped, laughing so hard he thought his sides would burst.

"Oh, but they were, Frodo," the wizard replied.  "Thranduil's household recognized them immediately, of course, but they were so amused that they went along with the joke.  Unbeknownst to Legolas and Lelemir, however, I was already in their father's house.       

"One of the King's heralds came in and announced with great difficulty that the great Mithrandir had arrived.  Thranduil rather guessed that his children were up to something, so he bade me conceal myself until the situation was unfolded.  That I did, but I kept my eyes free so that I could see what was happening.

"Imagine my surprise when a shorter, thinner, and altogether unsteady version of myself entered the hall of Thranduil!  The King concealed his amusement (for he instantly knew his children), and demanded to know why 'I' was late in arriving.  Do you know what that little imp Legolas said in reply?"

None of those listening could answer; they could barely breathe with the force of their laughter.  Gandalf, well-pleased with the effect he was having, continued his tale.  "Legolas straightened himself up as far as he could, and having deepened his voice as much as possible for a young Elf of fair speech, he said, 'A wizard is never late, nor early.  He always arrives exactly at the time he intends to.'"

"You say that often, Gandalf!" Frodo remarked.

            "Indeed I do, but because it was then spoken by a mischievous little scamp like Legolas, it was one of the most laughable speeches I have ever heard," Gandalf said.  "At the exact moment he finished speaking, however, he and Lelemir lost their balance altogether.  They were quickly reduced to a giggling pile of robes and tangled limbs upon the floor.  Thranduil leaped to his feet, still feigning unawareness of the joke, and inquired as to whether 'I' needed any assistance.  Legolas and Lelemir then lost much of their mirth, because they were certain of a reprimand from their father when he 'found them out.'"

            Gimli wiped tears from his eyes, still snorting and chuckling behind his beard.  "And did they, Gandalf?  What sort of discipline were they awarded?"

            "None save the embarrassment they suffered when I emerged, laughing at the mess they had made of themselves," Gandalf replied.  He laughed cheerily.  "For young Elves, they had quite a bit of pride in them, and I believe every inch of it was trampled when they realized that they weren't as clever as they had thought."

            "Say no more, Gandalf, or I shall rend my lungs with laughing!" Boromir panted between guffaws.

            "The tale is finished, Boromir, so ease your breathing," Gandalf told him.  

            "I had almost forgotten that occasion, Mithrandir," said a musical voice from nearby.

            Frodo looked around and saw Lelemir herself standing some paces away.  Her sapphire dress was long and full, and gathered at the waist with a braid of gold.  Long waves of sun-drenched hair cascaded down around her shoulders, the foremost lengths of it being clasped in a golden comb.  She came nearer, seeming in the fashion of her people to glide rather than walk.  "How is it that such an aged wizard can remember the idle mischief of two young Elves as my brother and I were?" she asked.

            Gandalf winked at Frodo, but replied only, "Such things do I remember in order to discomfit the proud when they have matured, Lady."

            Lelemir laughed then, the sound echoing in the ears of those present like the murmuring of a sparkling waterfall.  "Indeed, it is good to see you again, old friend," she said.  "Many years have passed since your last visit to my father's house.  I have often longed to speak with you."

            At that, Gimli got to his feet and bowed to the princess.  "My Lady, if it pleases you, I and my companions would be honored if you would join us at our table, and perhaps share this meal with us."

            Lelemir seemed genuinely surprised by the Dwarf's courteous speech.  "Forgive my amazement, Master Dwarf, for I am not accustomed to hearing such considerate words in the voice of your people.  Mayhap I shall become inured to it, if I hear more.  Yes, I will sit with you, although I have taken breakfast already.  If nothing more, at least I shall be present to defend my brother and myself against the treacherous tongue of Gandalf!"

            Frodo thenceforth observed how very much like her brother Lelemir truly was, in both appearance and action.  She was kind and thoughtful, yet possessed of the same wit and good humor common to the Elves.  On several occasions Frodo was startled to see an expression in Lelemir that was ostensibly drawn straight from the manner of Legolas, and his heart ached all the more for his missing friend.  He wished he could at least know how the Elf was faring; surely his imaginings were worse than the reality, although he shuddered to wonder if perhaps they were in fact better than the truth.

            It seemed as though no time at all passed, yet there came a moment when Gandalf peered up through the trees and said, "Ah!  The light of the Sun has begun to wane!  I believe it is time for the Council to meet, as Galadriel decreed.  Come, let us be off to the Hall of Lórien!"

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            "Many a decision must be set upon today," Lord Celeborn said softly, casting a somber gaze about the elliptical chamber.  "The fates of both Legolas of Mirkwood and Frodo the Ringbearer remain in question.  The former is a captive of Orthanc and its lord; the latter is hunted by the Dark One himself—and on all sides there are destructive forces mobilizing.  Yet darkness does not hold sway in all the land, for there are even now places of refuge left intact."  The Lord of Lórien cast his glance to one side.  "Early this morn another was added to the number assembled here, and now I ask that he come forth and present himself and his purpose."

            An Elf stepped forward from among the elders.  Frodo could see that Aragorn had also stood with the stranger; perhaps they knew each other of old.  The new Elf was tall even among the Firstborn, but not as sinuous; he was built powerfully with broad chest and shoulders and strong limbs.  His features were chiseled from white granite, it seemed, and his eyes burned a fierce blue-gray.  Hair as dark as a raven's wing spilled down his back, and the braids of a warrior were clearly visible at the sides.  Frodo was awed, for he had not yet seen any other Elf who appeared so dangerous—and yet so fair.  The Elves were mighty in battle, it was true, but few looked so at first glance.

            The Elf spoke in a deep voice rich with wisdom and vivacity.  "Greetings from Master Elrond and the people of Imladris," he said to all those gathered in the place.  "I am Alcarin, head of the Guardians of Elrond's easternmost border.  Two days ago the lord of Imladris received word of the return of the Nine, and also of the Fellowship's return to Lothlórien.  I am sent here to assess the circumstances and to offer what help I may."  With that, he bowed slightly and stepped back into his place among the councilors of Lórien.

            Galadriel nodded gravely to Alcarin.  "Elrond is swift to come to the aid of his allies," she said.  

            "Indeed," Celeborn agreed.  "And now we must be as swift in our conclusions here.  The Quest to destroy the One Ring must persist, that much is certain.  What is not determined as of yet is what members of the original Fellowship intend to continue in their charge as such."

            "Here there are eight of those nine who set out from Rivendell," Galadriel said.  "It would be wise to regain that number, for Elrond's counsel is not to be disregarded in this matter."

            "What of Legolas, our friend and the ninth of our number, my Lady?" Gimli asked her, his tone altogether respectful but laced with concern.

            Galadriel's fair, sad gaze came to rest on the Dwarf.  "The fields of Isengard are well-held by the forces of darkness, Gimli son of Gloin, and the Tower of Orthanc is unassailable.  There is not enough strength even in Lórien to combat Saruman in his own realm.  Such an attempt would require the unified might of the three great Elven strongholds and would be long in preparation, if it were possible at all."

            "It rends my heart to say what I must," Aragorn said sadly, "but the Quest cannot wait.  The Ring must be destroyed with all haste."

            Lelemir's gaze grew cold and hard.  "What of Legolas?  Is he to be left to the mercies of Saruman and his Abominations?" she asked.  

            "I did not and would not suggest that, my Lady," Aragorn replied.  "But what I say is true.  The Ring must go on without Legolas."

            Hithílion was seated next to Lelemir, and he narrowed his eyes in anger.  "I will not abandon the youngest child of my king to suffer torment at the hands of the traitor," he said sharply.  

            "Aragorn is not abandoning Legolas!  None of us would do so!" Boromir said then.  He had become incensed at the Elf's tone.  "But the Ring cannot simply lie in one place waiting for its Master to come and claim it!"

            "Do you dare accuse me of wishing victory for the Dark One?" Hithilion snapped.  "I assure you that I do not.  However, my first priority as Thranduil's representative here is to ensure that the Prince is returned alive to his father."

            "And I would not deny any father that happiness," Aragorn said calmly.  "But I too have a priority, and that is to make certain that the One Ring is annihilated before its Master can use it to bring a second darkness on Middle-earth."

            "Aragorn is right," Frodo said quietly.

            Silence fell over the chamber, and all those in attendance looked to the small hobbit tucked away among his fellows.  Frodo swallowed, trying to blink back the tears welling up in his eyes.  His voice sounded high-pitched and strained in his own ears.  "Aragorn is right.  The Ring must go on.  I must go on."  He sighed shakingly.  "Even if I must do so without my friend Legolas."

            Galadriel's face was sad and understanding.  "It is for the Ringbearer to decide, and chosen he has.  Who will go hence with Frodo Baggins to the land of Mordor?"

            Aragorn stood.  "I will continue in my service to Frodo," he said, nodding to the hobbit. 

            Almost at the same time, Sam jumped to his feet and cried, "I will!  I will go on with Mr. Frodo, just like you said, Mr. Gandalf!"  Gandalf just smiled.

            Merry and Pippin were quick to renew their pledge of faithfulness, each talking over the other and stumbling over their words.  Boromir stood with Aragorn and restated his allegiance.  Frodo managed a trembling smile for them all, though his heart remained heavy.  He kept his gaze on Gandalf, and was dismayed when the wizard did not rise to join the others.  He wanted to inquire as to why, but he could not find the words.

            "And you, Gimli son of Glóin?" Lord Celeborn asked.  "Will you not also rejoin your companions in this Quest?"

            Gimli stood then and bowed to the Lord and Lady.  "My Lord, my Lady, councilors and friends, I am torn between two desires.  My heart yearns to remain with the Elves of Lórien and seek a method of rescue for my dear friend Legolas.  But my duty requires me to carry on with the Quest on which I embarked and swore to uphold.  In truth, I do not know what I shall do."

            Galadriel dipped her head in acknowledgement.  "A difficult choice you must make, and soon, son of Glóin.  I can give no counsel, for such is not my place."

            "Nor will I advise you, for though wise I may be, even I cannot see all ends," Celeborn said.  

            Suddenly Lelemir rose to her feet, her hair shimmering in the soft light.  "If I may, I should like to speak for a brief moment ere anything more is decided," she said.  

            "Speak then, daughter of Thranduil," Galadriel said.

            "The steadfast loyalty of Gimli the Dwarf moves me to action that I did not at first intend," the Elf princess said with a strange look.  "My heart's wish is to linger for as long as is necessary to secure my brother's release from Isengard.  Yet I feel an appeal much stronger in my spirit, one that I cannot discount.  Legolas determined his course for the greater good of all; I can do no less."  She turned a serious gaze to Aragorn, then to Frodo.  "If it is permitted, I shall be honored to continue in the Quest in my brother's stead."

            Hithílion arose with an exclamation of surprise.  He spoke a swift, vehement Elven phrase to Lelemir.  The princess flicked her imperious glare up to meet Hithílion's.  She replied in her own tongue, and her voice was icy and resolute.  Hithílion stiffened at her answer, and his fair face tightened with anger and worry.  

            Lelemir's gaze softened then, and she offered a quiet smile.  "My father will see the necessity," she said, speaking in Westron.  "He will not be pleased, and for that I am regretful, but he will come to understand.  Fear not for me, Hithílion."  When he did not reply, she spoke once more in their native dialect.

            Hithílion's visage was troubled, but he gave a sigh and nodded, retaking his seat.  He clasped his hands in his lap and did not look up again.  

            Lelemir turned once more to Aragorn.  "What say you, Aragorn son of Arathorn?" 

            "I should be glad to have the companionship of Legolas' farseeing kin," Aragorn said.  "However, the choice remains with Frodo."

            "I would be happy to have you alongside me, Princess," Frodo said sincerely.  He had been amazed at her request, and not at all opposed to it.  He glanced once more at Gandalf and wondered all the more why the wizard spoke not.

            Lord Celeborn gave Lelemir a slow, measured nod of acceptance.  "Very well, Princess of Mirkwood.  You shall go together with the Ringbearer and his companions to Mordor.  There are now only two places that remain to be filled, and the Company shall once more be complete."

            Frodo could contain himself no longer.  "Gandalf!  Will you not go with me?" he cried.

            Gandalf gave the hobbit a sad, kindly smile.  "No, Frodo, I will not.  Do you not remember what I said when I gave over leadership of the Company to Aragorn?  I must attend to other matters when I leave this Wood, and those matters will not cross your path."

            Frodo closed his mouth in shock.  He had heard the words then, but he had not comprehended them.  Gandalf would not continue on with the Fellowship.  Frodo badly wanted to ask what matters were to keep the wizard from accompanying him, but he could not bring himself to speak again.  

            "I shall agree to go on with the Fellowship if no others speak out," Gimli said, "but I believe I rather yearn to tarry here for Legolas' sake.  Forgive me this weakness, young Master Hobbit."

            Frodo gave the Dwarf a feeble smile.  "I understand, Gimli, and it is no weakness to harbor such fear for a dear friend.  I do not hold this against you."

            "I will go," said a resonant voice from beside Aragorn.  Alcarin of Rivendell stepped forward, towering above the rest.  "If the Ringbearer will give his consent, then I will go with him to Mordor as well."

            "He could probably fight the entire Orc army and win, you know," Sam whispered, nudging Frodo in the ribs.

            Frodo noticed Alcarin's faint expression of amusement and realized that every sharp-eared Elf in the chamber had likely heard Sam's comment.  "I would be glad if you would come also, Lord Alcarin," he said, blushing slightly in embarrassment.  The dark-haired Elf gave a single nod and stepped back.  

            "Then I shall stay with the Elves of Lórien, if it is permitted," Gimli said.

            "It is indeed, Master Dwarf," Lord Celeborn told him.  "Long shall it be remembered among my people that the son of Glóin showed such faithfulness to his friend, the son of Thranduil."  The Elf lord looked out at the eight chosen to continue, and he gave a slow, thoughtful nod.  "Then it is done.  The Renewed Fellowship of the Ring's number shall be eight, and not nine as before.  You shall depart from the Wood when the Daystar rises tomorrow morn.  Rest and ease yourselves this one last night, for your path remains long and treacherous ahead of you.  But do not despair!  The Lady of the Stars is ever-watchful, and she does not abandon those who oppose the darkness.  Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya."  _May the Valar protect you on your path under the sky._

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End of Chapter Eight.  Francine is well-pleased with the progress we are making.  We have plotted out the course of events in our re-write of the Trilogy, and it promises to be a doozy.  We swear it will be logical and will not include any lame plot trips!  

            Thanks for reading!  Review! :)


	9. Twice Departed

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Nine**

**Author: Katharine the Great**

**Summary: If you've been reading, you know the drill.**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My resources for Elvish include: the LOTR trilogy, The Silmarillion, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  **

**Replies to reviews:**

Staggering Wood-elf: Hi, and welcome back!  I'm glad you like "The Silmarillion" as much as I do.  It's so great!  And you think you've set up camp?  Ha!  Producing this fic has become a full time job!  :)  Enjoy!

AJ Matthews: That's better.  Although I suggest you get a squeeze toy to massacre when you feel the urge to chew your nails, because I get the feeling you're going to want to bite your whole fingers off when you read the end of this chapter…and the next one…(evil cackle)  Enjoy!  :)

Salak: Hey there, and welcome!  So glad you're enjoying, and Francine says she can't wait either!  Enjoy! :)

ArtemisPrime: Hello, and may I say that your pen name is intriguing?  It is!  Thank you for your kind comments about my work.  Also, I know EXACTLY what you mean when you say you aren't sure about Lelemir…I would feel the same.  I promise, she does have a unique and special purpose for existing, and she will not just become a self-insertion ploy or "feminazi-girl power" tool!  As for your curiosity, wait and see what I and my bunny shall do…hee hee hee…:)  Enjoy! 

Treehugger: Welcome back!  I just want to say thank you SO much for your detailed chapter-by-chapter reviews…they are muchly appreciated!  I am so glad you like my story and its individual components.  Prepare to be WOWed again as I delve deeper into the terrible realm of my Plotbunny's evil and sadistic mind!  (evil snicker) :)  I'm glad you've caught up!  Enjoy! 

And now, on to the tale…

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**            Frodo and his fellow hobbits gathered together with Aragorn and Boromir ere the first beams of dawn slipped over the horizon.  They were all of them furnished with fresh supplies and clean Elven-cloaks, as commanded by Lord Celeborn.  Gandalf was present as well, for he wished to walk with them as far as the bank of the Silverlode River. There they would at last part ways, with the Renewed Fellowship continuing on toward Mordor and Gandalf departing on errands unknown.  **

            "If the condition of the world had allowed it, I would have gone on with you to Mordor," Gandalf told them solemnly, casting a piercing gaze over the six before him.  "For now you are to be but eight of nine, and there is much peril laid out before you.  However I must do what is needed in other parts of the land.  I have faith that you will not fail in your mission if you remain true to it.  Now I shall give you a gift, Frodo, one that is not lightly given and should not be used in vain."

            The wizard drew from within his white robes a small brown cocoon that was inscribed with delicate gold whorls.  It seemed tiny and ordinary between Gandalf's fingers.  Kneeling, he placed it in Frodo's palm and closed the hobbit's hand around it.  "This is an item of great value, Frodo Baggins," Gandalf told him with a serious look.  "Place it in the safest pocket you wear.  Pay heed; do not allow it to fall by the wayside!"

            The cocoon felt warm in Frodo's hand.  "What is it, Gandalf?" he asked.

            "It is a _laurëquéndi, a Golden Speaker," Gandalf said softly.  "If ever you are faced by a danger insurmountable, from which there can be no retreat and against which you can achieve no victory, then speak the words that I shall give you.  This very same cocoon shall thereafter cease to be dormant, and shall yield a singular creature whose sole purpose is to observe and give testimony to the one who commands its loyalty."  As Gandalf spoke, he seemed to grow brighter and more ancient.  For just an instant, Frodo glimpsed an inkling of the elemental power contained within the wizard's white-robed frame, and it amazed him so that he could not speak.  Gandalf continued, "If you should loose it, Frodo, it will return to me in order that I might send what help I can to you.  But do this only at the hour of greatest need, for the __laurëquéndi's gift is given but once before its life is sapped by the energy it expends in its task."_

            Frodo felt a lump growing in his throat, and for several minutes he stood wordless.  Finally he found the breath to speak, and he whispered, "Thank you, Gandalf.  I shall cherish it."  With that, he carefully placed the cocoon into the inner pocket of his vest.  

            Gandalf laid one hand over the pocket and the cocoon therein.  "Repeat these words, Frodo, and commit them to memory.  Take care not to say them after I have removed my hand, or the creature will wake and die without purpose.  The words are these: _Utulie'n mornië, Mithrandir.  Say them now, and take them to heart."_

            Frodo repeated the words until Gandalf was satisfied and removed the hand of silence from the cocoon.  He knew that _Mithrandir was the Elves' name for Gandalf, and it meant "Gray Wanderer."  The other words were strange to him, and he asked as to their meaning.  "The words mean, 'the night has come,'" the wizard answered.  "Be sure to save this gift for a time of deepest distress, Frodo.  I promise I shall send whatever aid I may to your side as soon as I hear the voice of the __laurëquéndi."_

            "Thank you, Gandalf," Frodo said.  He tried his best to keep his tears back.  "As long as I carry this, I will feel as though you walk with me still, even when you have gone."

            The wizard smiled and stood once more, regarding Frodo with a twinkle in his eye.  "Ah, Frodo my lad, you and your kin never cease to amaze even one so old as I am.  To think that four hobbits would accept such a task with as much grace and hardiness of spirit as you have!  It has never been conceived of, and I daresay its like will never be witnessed upon these shores again."

            Pippin sniffed a little.  "Will we see you again, Gandalf?"

            The wizard chuckled and ruffled the hobbit's curly hair.  "If you keep your wits about you and stay by Aragorn's side, Peregrin, I believe you may.  Just don't go off on some foolish Took caper!"

            "Look!" Merry exclaimed suddenly.  "The Elves are coming!"

            As he spoke, a small contingent of Elven folk appeared from the trees around them.  The Sun's fiery disc had risen partway, and the mallorn leaves twinkled in the golden rays.  The Elves approached silently, with not even a footfall to announce their arrival, and as they drew nearer their faces became apparent.  

To one side was Lelemir, whose transformation from a Lady of Mirkwood to a roving Wood-elf rendered her nearly unrecognizable at first.  She had exchanged her bright gowns and shining adornments for layers of tunic and leggings very much like Legolas had worn, except that hers were fashioned in hues of earthen-brown and morning-gray.  The foremost locks of her golden hair were pulled back into a single spiraling braid nestled amid the remaining free tresses, while some stray wisps waved around her face.  Strangely, she seemed as much at ease with her bow and quiver and Elven-knives as she had with her delicately wrought finery.

At the princess' left strode Alcarin of Rivendell.  Frodo was again struck by the raven-haired Elf lord's stature and bearing.  He towered over his companions, and yet in no way diminished their persons.  He was clad in the deep forest greens of Rivendell's East Guardianship, and at his side was a mighty graven sword crafted by Elven smiths.  He too bore a bow and quiver slung across his back.

"Good morning," Pippin called cheerily, forgetting for the moment about Gandalf's coming separation from them.

"A good morning it is," Alcarin replied with a broad smile.  "Sunlit and greeted by the cheerful voices of young hobbits."

The Elves drew closer, and as they did so Frodo turned his attention to the third of their number.  He was a familiar youthful-looking individual with flaxen hair and silent tread.  He came up beside the others, and Aragorn was the first to recognize him.  "Haldir!" the Dúnadan said in greeting.  "What brings you from the northern watch, my friend?"

"I am sent to guide you once more to the bank of the River," Haldir replied with a smile.  "The Lady felt it was appropriate that I should lead you as I did upon your last departure, and I confess I was delighted to acquiesce.  My only regret is that I shall not be permitted to share a jest with your agreeable Dwarf friend along the way!"

Frodo well-remembered Gimli's negative reaction to Haldir's initial insistence that he be blindfolded for the first leg of their journey through Lórien.  "I am glad you have come, Haldir," he said, smiling in return.  "Gimli gave his farewells last night when he took supper with us.  He wished to stand among the Elves who will gather on the bank at the juncture between the Silverlode and the Anduin in order to see us off on that last bend."  

            "That is well, for a marvelous gathering it shall be," Haldir said.  "Come!  It is time we set forth.  The Daystar rises in the sky, and you are expected by the Lord and Lady."

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            High noon was at hand when the travelers came at last to the lawn from whence they had set out three weeks and three days beforehand.  There they found the three small gray vessels that had borne them upon the Anduin.  The boats had been cleaned to their original sheen, and low arched coverlets had been attached to their sterns to serve as some shelter against Orc-arrows.

            Haldir gave to each of the Renewed Fellowship a small package of _lembas, the Elven waybread of sweet taste and miraculous strength-renewing properties.  "From Lady Galadriel herself, to keep you in good health for as long as it endures," he said.  "And now we must part ways, Elf-kindred and Elf-friends alike.  May Tintallë Elentári keep you and provide for your well-being on the path laid down for you!"  For Tintallë Elentári was one of the many names by which the Elves knew Varda, or Elbereth, the Queen of the Valar and Kindler of the stars so beloved by the Firstborn._

            The Company said good-bye to Gandalf with much emotion, for they all felt that they had just regained him, and were now losing him again.  But Frodo pressed a hand to the _laurëquéndi nestled within his breast pocket and was comforted.  _

They arranged themselves in this fashion: Aragorn took Frodo and Sam into his boat, as before; Merry and Pippin elected to remain with Boromir; and Alcarin and Lelemir took the third vessel.  Haldir and Gandalf stepped away from the boats, and stood still high upon the lawn long after the boats had been washed out into the center of the Silverlode and carried around a curve in the River's watery path.  The hobbits in particular watched until Gandalf's shimmering white figure passed out of sight.  

            Frodo gazed upon the mallorn trees passing by as the boat sailed down the shining Silverlode.  He was heartened somewhat by the knowledge that Gandalf lived and also by the wizard's gift, but the loss of Legolas still weighed heavily upon him.  Gimli would be missed as well, and Gandalf especially.  Still, Frodo had a degree of peace; Gimli would surely not yield to defeat until Legolas was safe, and so the Elf was almost assured of rescue.  Gandalf's errand had remained unnamed, but the wizard was certainly planning to work at some matter of import in the war against Sauron.  Also, Frodo was reassured by the presence of Legolas' spirited sister and Master Elrond's splendid Guardian.  

            At last the boats came to the sharp turn beyond which the original Company had met the Swan-ship bearing Galadriel and Celeborn, who had come to invite them to a parting feast.  There was no such greeting this time, but the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim had gathered together with Gimli and many Elves of Lórien on the grass of Egladil, the plain where the feast had been held.  Now there was only a silent, solemn farewell.  Gimli raised one hand in salute, but his face was troubled.  He seemed loathe to disturb the quiet in the place, and so did not speak as the three vessels glided past.  Galadriel and Celeborn stood together on the bank, a vision of shimmering white and gold and silver in the growing sunlight.  

            Just as the boats passed, Galadriel's voice carried over the waters with clarity like a bell, singing a part of the song she had sung upon their last parting in like manner, but with some variance in tone and lyric: "Namárië!  Nai hiruvalyë Valimar nu vilya.  Mornië alantië; tiro! êl eria e môr, ar aurë entuluva!  Namárië!" _Farewell!  Maybe thou shalt find Valimar under the sky.  Darkness has fallen; look! a star rises out of the darkness, day shall come again!  Farewell! _

            The Silverlode soon spilled out into the swift currents of the Anduin River, and as the boats were swept away Frodo looked back at the way they had come.  As before, the figures of the Galadhrim diminished in size but not in radiance, for they glowed beneath Anor's bright beams just as they had in the light of their cherished stars.  Galadriel, Celeborn, Gimli, and the rest faded only when the boats turned sharply with the River's flow, thereby cutting the last of the mallorn-trees and their occupants off from the Company's view.

            "Namárië, Laurelindorinan," Aragorn said aloud with much reverence in his tone. _ Farewell, Land of the Valley of Singing Gold.  It was the original name of the Golden Wood, long-forgotten by all but a few of the mortal Men of Middle-earth._

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            So the Renewed Fellowship continued their journey.  The woods marched on either bank, but there were no golden-leaved mallorns beyond the forest of Lórien.  As before, Aragorn was content to let the boats glide with the current so that their occupants could conserve their strength for the days to come.  Also, no decision had yet been made as to whether they would press on for Mordor without cease, or halt for a short time in the White City of Minas Tirith, the city wherein reigned Boromir's father Denethor, the Steward of Gondor.  Unlike previously, however, the boats shied away from the two banks; none of the Company wished to draw another enemy attack such as the one that had deprived them of Legolas.  

            They adopted a system of shifts much like that used by the remnant of the first Company on their return voyage to Lórien.  One occupant in each vessel was awake at any given time so as to keep watch for enemy movement on the shores.  Alcarin and Lelemir in particular strained their keen eyes and ears, for they needed no sleep as did mortals, but merely rested their minds in the peculiar waking-sleep of the Elves.  Each boat had its own supply of food and water as well, so there was no need to make camp in order to share provisions.  

            Because they did not stop along the way, they progressed more swiftly down the River, and so came to the cursed place of the Nazgûl attack and Legolas' downfall in five days rather than eight.  Every eye was affixed to that site; the Men and the hobbits gazed at it mournfully, with many a worried thought for their missing and presumably captive friend.  Alcarin and Lelemir sensed the distress and followed the others' gazes, and Lelemir knew in her heart that her brother had met his doom in that place.  

            Lelemir wept openly then, but restrained her outcry for fear of alerting the enemy as to their presence.  "Ai Legolas, nin muindor," she murmured with downcast gaze and tear-filled eyes, "i lasmir Taur e-Ndaedelos.  An si nin ciruren nirnaeth arnoediad, ar mornië utulië.  Ai, Elbereth Tintallë!  Caled veleg ethuiannen, ar nin fae nienor!"  _Ah, Legolas, my brother, the jewel-leaf of Mirkwood.  For now my heart is cut with tears unnumbered, and darkness has come.  Ah, Elbereth the Kindler!  A great light has gone out, and my spirit mourns!_

            Frodo could hear but little of her words, but he was moved by her sorrow.  He too was burdened by the absence of the merry-hearted Elf whose songs had lifted their spirits more than one time during their journeys.  Legolas had never refused to sing when asked, and often did so without any request at all.  Sometimes he would weave a low, delicate melody; other times the tune would be robust and full-throated.  Always they were beautiful to hear, and soothing to weary souls.  

Frodo closed his eyes and recalled the calm that had seemed to fall over the world when Legolas sang to them.  His throat hurt.  He touched the Phial of Galadriel tucked into his pocket, the marvelous gift that the Lady had given to him at their first parting.  In it was caught the light of Eärendil, the evening star.  "Keep our friend safe, Lady Elbereth," he whispered hesitantly, unsure whether it was proper for a hobbit to address the great Lady of the Stars to whom all Elves tendered adulation.

A fragile weight settled onto Frodo's bare feet, and as he opened his eyes he gave a startled gasp.  There was a single leaf, green as a field in summer, but from whence it had come was impossible to say.  There were no such leaves on the trees along the banks.  Frodo's eyes filled with tears as he gingerly picked up the leaf.  Though he knew not what it signified, it was a thing of simple beauty, the first of its kind he had seen since their leaving of Lórien.   

Aragorn had seen and heard all, and he placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder.  "Perhaps the Lady heard you," he murmured.  "For Legolas' name means 'green-leaf' in the tongue of his people."

At that, Sam looked up at the sky.  "That would be something, wouldn't it, Mr. Frodo?" he asked softly.  "If she actually did hear us and all?  What with us not being Elves, I mean."

"The Queen of the Valar cares for all the _Híni Ilúvataro, the Children of God," Aragorn said gravely.  "As I recall, hobbits were once closely related to Men, the Younger Children, and so that places you under Elbereth's guardianship as well."_

"Isn't that something?" Sam muttered wonderingly, shaking his head and peering up once more at the graying sky.  "Isn't that just something?"

But Frodo held the flawless green leaf, Elbereth's gift to him, and breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving.  Perhaps Legolas would be all right after all.

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            The Silver Wraith was patient.

            Perhaps it was a quality drawn from his Elven derivation, or some figment of Saruman that had been ingrained along with the Istari's will and power.  In either instance, Lasselanta of Isengard was a patient creature, willing to wait for his prey to falter so that he could snatch it away without engaging in long, fruitless battle.

            For now he perceived that two of the Firstborn had been added to those who accompanied the Halfling he pursued.  Likely it was Saruman's doing that the Wraith could know such, for Lasselanta did not dare follow near or he would surely be discovered.  He did not fear the Firstborn, but neither would he charge into a foolhardy battle with those whose kin had been known to drive back even the Nine of Minas Morgul.  Those Nine he had sensed only once, and that briefly, for they had fled to the southeast on the very night of Lasselanta's silent vigil upon the hill south of Lothlórien.  Their dark presence had sung into the Silver Wraith's being, and for an instant he had felt compelled to join them in their flight.  But Saruman's voice had called him back ere he embarked upon any such deed, and so Lasselanta remained in the service of Orthanc.  

            Lasselanta eased his silver steed forward over the hills of Eastemnet, preferring to conserve the beast's strength and speed for such time as it was needed.  On occasion he would meet Men of Rohan, valiant warriors mounted upon horses of great beauty and fleet foot.  These the Silver Wraith slew without hesitation, both man and beast, for he was possessed of no pity and desired not to be set upon by an army of Rohirrim ere his task was completed. Before long, his blades and arrows ran red with the blood of Rohan.  

            So it came to pass that Lasselanta paused in his movement, heeding the whispers that abounded in his mind.  They were the voice of Saruman, bidding him take notice of what the Istari perceived already.  The Halfling he sought had taken to the shore once again, for what purpose he knew not; this, however, he knew: the hunted was no longer carried by the safety of the River Anduin.  

The wraith then urged his horse on with great haste, for he wished to overtake the Halfling and his fellows ere they returned to the River's currents.  Ever before him was the face of Frodo Baggins, that hobbit who had become his prey for the powerful trinket he bore. And Lasselanta would slay without mercy any who attempted to halt his purpose, for so he had been commanded by the lord of Isengard.  He cared not for those who traveled with the Halfling; all traces of loyalty and friendship that the wraith's former Elven incarnation might have felt toward them had been stripped away in the freezing white glare of Saruman's power. 

The lord of Orthanc kept his attention closely fixed upon his Elven-wraith, though whether it was out of fear or pride none could say.  Possibly he wondered if the call of Sauron would unmake the bonds of allegiance and subservience that Saruman had fashioned within the wraith, and then replace them with his own dark purposes.  Saruman had no wish to be discovered in his rebellion.

  Yet as he considered events with the long sight of the Istari, Saruman saw that the time was near, and smiled to himself with great pleasure.  The One Ring was at last within his reach, and with it the power to defy even the mighty will of the Dark Lord… 

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End of Chapter Nine.  Francine is an unmerciful little wretch, isn't she, to leave you all dangling like this?  

**Note: Although the components of Galadriel's parting song and Lelemir's lament were drawn from other works (see Further Notes at the beginning of the chapter), they were arranged by Francine and I.  Also, the _laurëquéndi that Gandalf gave to Frodo is so totally mine.  Review!  _**


	10. Warnings

**Title:** The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Ten

**Author:** Katharine the Great

**Summary:** "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell

**Notes:** This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  .  

**Disclaimer:** Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!

**Further notes:** My Elvish resources include: the LOTR trilogy, The Silmarillion, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  

**Replies to reviews:**

Treehugger: Hi!  So glad you liked the_ laurëquéndi_.  Well, I'm glad I got across the whole "chilling" theme I had in mind! :)  As for the green leaf's portent, well, I ain't tellin' nothin'.  Enjoy!

PepperVL: Francine started out small, but all the reviews are making her fat.  Saruman get the Ring?  Hmmm.  We shall see…

Amancirith Carangarien: Hi, and welcome!  Sweet pen name.  What does it mean?  Thanks for the review…keep 'em comin'!

Salak: You danced?  Like the Snoopy dance?  Hee hee!  Cool!  And don't die, or you won't be able to review me! : (

On with the tale…

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            Alcarin of Rivendell was the first of the Company to leap onto the shore of the Anduin, and close behind him was Lelemir of Mirkwood.  The two Elves stood for some minutes upon the treeless bank, listening intently and sweeping the horizon with intense gazes.  The world was awash in shades of gold as the bright Sun approached its zenith.  To the west there lay rolling grasslands of green and tan; this was the very southernmost portion of Eastemnet, that part of Rohan which lay east of the Entwash River.  Beyond the eastern shore of the Anduin there was a vast marshland, which was known to the people of Gondor as Wetwang.

            Here the Renewed Fellowship would be forced to abandon the Great River, for they had at last reached the mighty Falls of Rauros.  Aragorn had elected to go ashore on the western bank, as a journey through Wetwang would be unduly arduous and would also bring the Ring too close to the mountains that bordered Mordor.  No decision had been made yet as to whether the Company would make for Mount Doom straightaway, or rest briefly in Minas Tirith before moving on into the Black Land.  Aragorn did not think it wise to allow the Enemy such near access to his treasure until they were resolved to face the perils of Mordor.

            Frodo watched the Elves from his boat as they surveyed the surrounding region for danger.  Alcarin was straight and tall; his alabaster skin fairly shone in the noonday beams, contrasting sharply with the sheet of dark hair waving about his face in the breeze.  Lelemir made a striking figure as well, though she was not nearly so imposing a presence as the Elf-lord.  Her long flaxen hair flowed down her back, and Frodo stifled a gasp as she tilted her head slightly to listen to the winds.  So often he had seen Legolas gesture in an identical manner as he had kept careful watch over the Company.  Frodo experienced a sudden chill as he realized that Lelemir looked very much as her brother might have, if in the daytime he had fallen instead of the night.

Alcarin turned and motioned to Aragorn and the others.  "Come.  There is nothing to fear in the hinterland at the moment," he called.  

Aragorn and Boromir carefully guided the vessels closer to the bank.  The hobbits were assisted onto the verdant embankment by the strong arms of the Elves, and the men followed.  The boats they set adrift upon the River, for they did not wish to leave any obvious trail for enemies to track.  "It will be difficult for our foes to say for certain where we deserted the River for the land," Aragorn said.

"It's a shame, though, isn't it?" Merry asked as they watched the vessels float ever further away, unguided in the currents.  "They are such very nice boats, and the Lord and Lady went to the trouble to give them to us."

"I am sure they will understand the necessity, Merry," Boromir said amiably, ruffling the hobbit's hair in a friendly fashion.  But he cast no glance at Frodo, and neither did he say a word to him.  The son of Denethor seldom spoke to Frodo any more, and when he did it was with a strangely over-eager note in his voice.  Frodo did not know what to think of it yet, but he made no attempt to initiate conversation with Boromir; the man's look sent small shakes of apprehension through him that he could not discount.  

The Company continued southwestward through the plains of Eastemnet, with Aragorn at the forefront, the hobbits filing behind him, Boromir striding thereafter, and the ever-alert Elves flanking them.  Now and then Alcarin or Lelemir—and sometimes both—would stop and look about, as though expecting to see someone nearby.  Then, after scrutinizing the horizon intently, they would speak softly to Aragorn in the Elven-tongue.  Their tone was steady but uneasy, and Frodo had no wish to know what they were sensing.  He dimly recalled seeing similar behavior on the part of Glorfindel when that Elf had led Frodo and the others to the Ford of Bruinen at Rivendell; the Nazgûl had been in close pursuit then, and Glorfindel had been keenly aware of it the whole time.  Frodo began looking over his shoulder nervously whenever he saw one of their present escorts displaying such wary conduct.

They paused only once for a short rest, and the hobbits flung themselves upon the ground in great weariness.  They were glad to sit motionless for the while; their muscles and joints ached from the swift pace Aragorn had set for them thus far.  

Boromir spoke quietly with Aragorn, but Alcarin and Lelemir came and knelt among Frodo and the others.  "How fare you, young _periannath?" Lelemir asked kindly, using her people's word for the Halflings, as they were called in the Elven-tongue._

"Tired, my Lady, but otherwise, well, just tired," Sam said with a yawn and a sigh.  "Strider is a good man, but by the Shire! he is a merciless taskmaster when it comes to traveling, I'll say that much."

"Such has not always been true, Master Samwise," Alcarin said thoughtfully.  "Your Strider was once a merry child, unhurried in manner and full of curiosity."

Frodo laughed to think of grim Aragorn as a cheery youngster.  "Did you know him then, Lord Alcarin?"

"Yes, I did," Alcarin said.  His eyes grew distant and strangely sad, and Frodo's mirth faded.  "Alas, but those were different times.  The weight of darkness has changed many, some for the better, and many for the worse."  The Elf cast his dark gaze upon Aragorn, who stood some paces away still speaking with Boromir.  "I suspect that we shall not see the merry heart of the man ere the shadow of Mordor has been driven from the land."

Aragorn and Boromir finished speaking, and shortly thereafter the hobbits were compelled to rise and continue on.  It seemed to Frodo that a kind of renewed urgency had come upon the group, and he wished for some sort of cover to hide them upon the vast, flat plain.  There was none, not even a tree, which made Frodo feel all the more vulnerable.  Alcarin and Lelemir had resumed their duties as sentries, but their increasingly frequent glances behind only served to worsen Frodo's agitation.  He knew something evil was afoot, but he had not the perception to determine precisely what.

Night fell with a sprinkling of glittering stars, but the Company pressed ahead at Aragorn's urging.  The hobbits stumbled along in the dark with only the faint starlight to guide them ere the Moon's silver disc rose.  For a time, they were only able to make out a vague outline of Aragorn's figure walking ahead of them.  Boromir fared a little better.  Alcarin and Lelemir walked without difficulty, for the keen eyes of the Elves were the stuff of much lore among the other races of Middle-earth.  

Frodo glanced once at Lelemir, and he was amazed to see that a soft glow clung about her face and hair.  It was as though she had veiled herself in the muted light of the stars.  Alcarin appeared much alike, his fair skin contrasting sharply with his night-hued locks.  Then, Frodo remembered with a pained wince that he had witnessed the very same sheen upon Legolas' features when that Elf had stood high on the bank of the River, crying warning as the Nazgûl dashed through the trees intent upon their prey.  Frodo gazed up at the stars, and held a hand to the pocket wherein was carefully folded the green leaf that had fallen into his boat the day before.    

At length the Company halted for the night, and Pippin drew his cloak tightly about himself and asked whether they might make a small fire for warmth and the preparation of a late supper.  "No, Pippin, no fire tonight," Aragorn said, with both firmness and compassion in his voice.  "I do not wish to draw the attention of the Rohirrim, the horsemen of Rohan who patrol tirelessly upon these grounds.  They would mean no harm, I think, but their curiosity and suspicion would delay us more than is prudent."

"Are the Black Riders following us again?" Frodo asked suddenly.

Aragorn looked at him in surprise.  "Why do you ask that, Frodo?" 

Frodo looked away with a discomfited blush creeping about his cheeks.  "I have seen Lord Alcarin and Lady Lelemir glancing around as if they see something we do not," he said hesitantly.  "And Glorfindel did the same before we reached the Ford at Rivendell, when the Riders chased us there."

Lelemir's light, soft laughter reached his ears.  "You are more observant than I had given you credit for, Frodo of the Shire," she said.  "I shall not make that mistake again."

Alcarin's reply was solemn.  "Do not worry yourself unduly, Master Perian. Yes, we have felt pursuit drawing nearer as the day has worn on, but whether it be the Riders we cannot say.  If they should assail us, however, I think they shall find themselves rather forcefully set upon by those you see here."  The Elf lord's dark eyes gleamed in their fair setting.  Frodo hoped he would elaborate and in so doing further heighten the hobbit's courage, but Alcarin fell silent and would say nothing more on the subject.

"Wrap yourselves in your blankets and cloaks and huddle together for warmth," Aragorn told the hobbits, laying a hand on Frodo's shoulder reassuringly.  "The night is not so cold that you will find it unbearable.  Perhaps we will be able to light a fire tomorrow eve, after we have passed over the Entwash."

"What of you and Boromir and the Elven folk?" Merry asked, dropping to the ground next to Pippin and the others.  "Will you not be cold?  Or will you huddle together as well?"

Boromir chuckled.  "We shall be fine, Merry, without huddling even.  I do not think I should be able to sleep well with Aragorn's sword hilt sticking into my side all night, and neither are Elven quivers suitable bedfellows."

"Sleep now," Lelemir told them gently.  "We shall keep watch until you wake."

Frodo and his companions clustered together in a close knot, wrapped in many layers of cloak and blanket, and though the grass beneath was chilled they managed to maintain some warmth between them.  Boromir was tired as well, and he lay down nearby with his sword at the ready should it be needed in the night.  But Aragorn and the Elves stood a slight distance apart from the others and spoke quietly.  Frodo heard faint snatches of their conversation, but sleep dragged heavily at his eyelids, and he drifted off into the land of dreams with the quiet breathing of his friends in his ears.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Whilst the hobbits and Boromir rested on the grassy plain, Aragorn held counsel with Alcarin and Lelemir.  The Elves had been unwilling to lay a burden of anxiety upon Frodo's shoulders, but now they spoke plainly.

            "_They are coming, Aragorn," Alcarin said in his own tongue, cautious of frightening any half-awake listeners among the others.  "__The Úlairi are once again hunting the Bearer of their Master's Ring.  I have felt them drawing closer with each passing hour upon this plain.  It would be wise to allow the others only a few hours' sleep before urging them onward once again.  We must pass through the vale of the Entwash ere night falls tomorrow, or the Riders shall strike us down one by one as we become lost to one another in the fog of that place."_

            "_There is something else as well, Aragorn," Lelemir said soberly.  "__The creature Gollum, whose keeping you charged the Elves of my homeland with, is also in close pursuit.  He has been following at a distance for nigh on four days, but I did not wish to alarm the others, and so I said nothing until now.  He too seeks the Ring Frodo carries."_

            "_We are set upon by all sides," Aragorn murmured in the Elven-tongue he had learned during the long years of his fostering in the house of Elrond.  "__And I carry these tidings as well: there was word from the southern reaches of Lórien that a silver-clad figure boding ill had been sighted upon a hill near that border.  It is not known from whence it came or what it seeks, even to the Lady and her Mirror.  It may be among those pursuing us."  The Dúnadan sighed.  "__How I wish we were not so bereft of allies in this land!  But alas, the Rangers of my watch are to the North in Eriador, for they do not willingly mingle with the folk of Rohan.  Perhaps King Théoden of the Mark would be of some help, if we asked it of him in the name of Gandalf and of Gondor.  Are they not longtime friends to him?" _

            "_That may be, but I fear that turning aside to Edoras will merely delay the inevitable attack," Alcarin said gravely.  "__Still, it would be best to find shelter against the night so long as the Riders are about.  Perhaps a solution awaits us in the halls of the Mark."_

            "_Then we shall turn toward Rohan's chief city as soon as we have passed beyond the dell of the Entwash," Aragorn said.  He turned a concerned eye to the southeast, where the land of Mordor was yet a distant shadow.  "__I do not like to remain here in the open when fleeing the Dark One's servants as we are.  Edoras is but a two-day journey from the fog of the River, and I shall rest easier when we have reached it," he sighed._

            "_And what of Gollum?__  He is a treacherous being, Aragorn, as you well know.  I do not think it wise to allow him to follow freely as he has," Lelemir cautioned._

            "_We have not the time to lay in wait for so crafty a creature," Aragorn said reluctantly.  _"Also, Gandalf was loathe to kill him in the Mines of Moria, owing to his belief that Gollum still had a purpose to fulfill.  Whether that purpose has been met, I do not know, but I am unwilling to so callously destroy a creature as wretched and hopeless as Gollum_."_

            "_Many of my people lost their lives to the Orc-raid that made possible Gollum's escape," Lelemir replied, her lilting voice darkening with remembered anger.  "__There may yet be some who suffer in the darkness of Dol Guldur.  Shall I allow such a creature as this Gollum to move about freely whilst my kin are tormented in black captivity?"  _

            "_Remember our purpose, Lady of Taur e-Ndaedelos," Alcarin said softly, and while his speech was even, it betrayed a note of deep sympathy and shared pain.  "_We have come to aid Frodo Baggins in his Quest.  Vengeance for fallen and captive kindred must be set aside until the larger concern has been addressed_."_

            Lelemir's tone turned to one of muted sorrow.  "_Yes, my Lord, you speak rightly.  I shall not endanger this Fellowship in the pursuit of recompense."_

            They passed a minute in silence, and then Aragorn said, "_I grieve for Legolas as I would for a blood brother, Lady.  Had I the choice, I would have stayed the Quest for his sake."_

            _"I know this, Aragorn, and I do not fault you for choosing the path you did," Lelemir told him steadily.  "_I too chose against my heart, and I do not regret it.  Nay, it is better that I am here; for the Enemy is nigh, and there is a measure of defense in greater numbers.  The Nazgûl will surely be matched should they attempt an assault_."_

            "_Are you truly so eager to challenge the Úlairi, Princess?" Alcarin inquired gently._

            She was silent for a moment, and then she replied, "_Nay, my Lord, and I did not intend to seem so.  Taur e-Ndaedelos is not like fair Imladris.  The shadow of Dol Guldur lies heavy upon the southern regions of my father's realm.  From my youth I was taught to beware the creatures of the darkness, for the great spiders and the Orcs have claimed many a traveler in the wood.  I myself have been beset by these and other dangers on countless occasions."_  Lelemir's countenance conveyed utter equanimity, though there was a hint of uncertainty in her pale gray eyes.  "_Fear of the Enemy has long lain in the souls of my people, from the time when oppression first corrupted my father's kingdom.  I confess that I greatly dread the coming attack, my Lords.  Yet I shall not hesitate to defy the Úlairi for the sake of those I have sworn to preserve; on this you have my word."_

            "_Your word is sufficient, Princess," Aragorn said.  "__I value your honesty in this matter."_

            "_As do I," Alcarin agreed__.  "Be not ashamed, my Lady.  You are wise to dread the Nazgûl, for they are vile adversaries.  It is no wonder to me that Thranduil's realm has endured thus far, if all his subjects are as prudent."_

            Lelemir inclined her head slightly.  "_Thank you for your kindness, my Lord.  But you make me curious, for you speak as one who has been met with such foes in the past."_

            "_It is as you say," Alcarin told her.  As he spoke, a strange weariness descended upon him.  "__I was but a subordinate Guardian when I first beheld the Úlairi. The Head of my contingent was slain in a ruinous ambush laid down by the Orcs of the Hithaeglir; therefore, I was called upon to lead a company of reserve Guardians into the Battle of Fornost, whereupon the alliance of Elves and Men waged war against the Witch-king at Angmar.  _

_"The Witch-king himself engaged with Glorfindel, who held command of the forces of Imladris.  I was near them as they struggled, and there came a time when I was compelled to trade blows with the Witch-king."  _The Elf-lord's gaze was distant.  "_Though I knew it not at that time, I faced the Lord of the Nazgûl.  The distance between his armored shoulders and the peak of his crown-helm was empty, devoid of a visible countenance.  I was able to repel him until Lord Glorfindel could rejoin the battle, however I cannot say with certainty that I would have otherwise bested him.  The Witch-king was a fierce foe indeed."_

"_My Lord, how then shall we stand against not one, but nine of his kind?" Lelemir questioned with wide eyes.  _

_"I did not know then such things as I have learned since,"_ Alcarin told her.  "_The Úlairi fear the flame, and also the name of Elentári Gilthoniel.  These weapons you shall possess against them, so that you may hold the advantage over the Fell Riders.  Aragorn and the periannath have witnessed this, as I have been told."_

Aragorn had not spoken for some time, but now he opened his mouth.  "_Yes, we were set upon at the dell beneath Weathertop.  There Frodo was wounded, but I was able to drive off the Nazgûl ere they wrought further evil."_

Lelemir's voice held great admiration.  "_You did this unaided?"_

"_Nay, my Lady, not unaided," Aragorn said.  "_I possessed a brace of flaming boughs, and I appealed aloud to the Lady of the Stars.  Also, there were only five of their number at hand, as the remaining four had gone ahead to hold the Ford of Bruinen against us."__

"_Your deed remains valiant in my estimation, Aragorn, regardless of the stipulations you may place upon it," said Alcarin.  Aragorn said nothing in reply, but only gave a slight bow of acknowledgement.  The Elf-lord continued, "_And now, my friend, you must take the opportunity to rest along with the others.  You may be the heir of Isildur, but you are also mortal.  Frodo needs you in peak form, as do we all."__

Aragorn gave a sigh.  "_You speak rightly, as is your custom, Alcarin.  Very well, I shall lie down for a short time.  But wake me ere the Sun rises, for we must not waste even a minute of the daylight if we are to cross the Entwash before nightfall tomorrow."_

"_Be assured of a timely awakening," Alcarin told him.  "_Now rest.  We shall stand guard while you sleep."__

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Chapter Ten.

**Note: Yes, I know the account of the Battle of Fornost in Appendix A at the end of the LOTR trilogy doesn't say that Glorfindel actually _fought the Witch-king of Angmar; it just says the Elf-lord rode up, and the Witch-king took off running like a sissy.  But for the sake of establishing the utter coolness of Glorfindel and Alcarin, I decided to "reinterpret" a little bit.  I think Glorfindel kicked the Witch-king's hind end, and that's why the latter scurried away in such a hurry.  After all, we know that old Glory certainly _could_ have done it…  : )_**

Review, please!


	11. Assailed

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Eleven**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  .  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, The Silmarillion, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  **

**Some more name translations:**

1) Alcarin (Elf of Rivendell, Head of the Guardians of Elrond's eastern border; sent to Lórien after the Company's retreat there, joined the Renewed Fellowship) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "glorious."  He was named after the bright star Alcarinquë.

2) Míthgilhiri_ (Elf of Mirkwood, daughter to Thranduil and elder sister to Legolas and Lelemir) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "gray-star-lady."  _

**Replies to reviews:**

Treehugger:  Once again, nin mellon, thank you SO much for your quick and extensive reviews!  They are very much appreciated.  And you are so right, Glory does rule!!  :)  Keep 'em coming, and enjoy!

Dan: You are SUCH a punk, pal!  How did Geoffrey Chaucer á la Knight's Tale (the one Markwood hates) put it?  I should "eviscerate you in fiction"!! 

Salak: Hee hee, so glad you dance over my humble li'l fic venture.  Keep enjoying (and reviewing)! :)

Raen: Whew!  I was worried when I didn't hear from you for a while!  I'm glad you're back.  Oh, and I had to send the radishes on to Francine…see my note at the end of this chapter for details.  ;)  Anyhoo, thanks for the warm compliments, and I hope you keep reading and enjoying and reviewing! 

On to the tale…

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"See there, Master Hobbits, the vale of the Entwash River, which flows down from the forest of Fangorn," Lelemir said, pointing to a shining ribbon of water ahead of the Company.  "And there is the Bridge of Onedlo, which we must cross over soon."

"It seems to me a quiet place," Pippin said, squinting at the far-off River.  "But I cannot see it very well.  Hobbit-eyes are not as keen as those of an Elf, I'm sure!  Is there anything dangerous lurking in our path, Lelemir?"

"Not presently, but travelers who take this road are warned to beware the fog of the Entwash," Lelemir told him.  "It is said to descend thick and without warning.  Wanderers are sure to fall into the River and be swept downstream if they are without guidance."

"Do we have guidance, then?  Sam couldn't swim to save himself in a puddle," Frodo said, poking at his friend's arm in jest.  "He'd likely go spinning like a top, and then sink to the bottom like a stone from the Bilbo's garden!" 

"You can certainly laugh, Mr. Frodo," Sam pouted.  "You aren't the one who fell into the well at Old Noakes' place and spent the rest of the week coughing water."

Lelemir's smile was sympathetic.  "I recall a time when I feared the Forest River that runs through the woods of my home, Samwise.  Many years passed before Legolas and our elder sister Míthgilhiri convinced me to learn to swim the currents.  But such activity will not be necessary today, I think, for we are to be led through the mist by Aragorn, and a Ranger is not easily disoriented." 

"What if we should become separated?  Pippin and I have to keep our eyes on our feet or we will trip over every knob in our path.  We could easily lose track of where all of you are," Merry said.

"I have a long rope here that you can use to bind yourselves together," Lelemir suggested.  "Then you will not lose contact with one another.  One of you may then give the end of the rope to me, for I will be better able to follow Aragorn and the others, even through the fog."

This sounded good to the hobbits, and when the Company reached the fringes of the dale they did as Lelemir had proposed.  Merry and Pippin tied their belts together, allowing some slack between them, then Sam tied Pippin's end to his own belt, and lastly was Frodo attached.  Lelemir took the rope's very end but did not tie it to her person, for she wished to remain able to move quickly in the event of an attack.  "Should you for some reason become divided from me, do not move a step in any direction," Lelemir cautioned her four charges.  "Call out to me so that I can recover you, but do not attempt to find me, or you may find yourselves walking directly into the River's eddies."

"I shall be the rearguard for this portion of the journey, so have no fear of falling too far behind for rescue," Alcarin told them.  "But do not linger overlong, for haste is imperative."

The hobbits nodded solemnly.  They imagined they could see the first hazy wisps drifting across the near to fore Entwash, although that was likely a trick on the part of their weary eyes.  The Sun was climbing to its pinnacle in the sky, and the River sparkled with deceptive merriment, as though enticing any weary traveler to dare its perilous banks.  The Bridge of Onedlo was a dark strip across the gleaming band of water.  As the Renewed Fellowship neared the River the ground became increasingly sodden, and the grasses grew long and tangled in the mud.  A puff of warmth rose up with each step they took, as the muck released the heat that lay trapped beneath the emerald and saffron grass.        

"This is worse than the Brandywine," Merry was heard to mutter, and Frodo had to agree.  The vale of the Entwash was considerably marshier than the banks of the golden-brown river that ran east of Hobbiton in the Shire.  

Frodo felt a pang of homesickness; his stomach twisted itself into knots as he considered how far he was from home, and how lean his prospects were of ever seeing Bag End again.  The Ring burned ever more urgently at Frodo's neck, calling his attention back to his Quest.  He could not allow his longing for home to distract him or interfere with his task.  He concentrated on the figures of his guides and protectors, drawing upon their steadfastness to calm his own heart.  Aragorn was at the head, his stride rapid and confident despite the tangled vegetation and the fen sucking at his boots.  Boromir walked directly behind Aragorn; and then Lelemir, who stepped lightly atop the mud in Elvish fashion, her shoes making only slight impressions in the muck.  It was a strangely familiar sight, for Legolas had trod as nimbly upon the snow of Caradhras.  Frodo glanced behind him, and saw that Alcarin's step was likewise delicate, a striking contrast with his daunting stature.

"I suppose it would be better if we all had Elf-feet," Pippin said.  "Then we could run across this plain without sinking down into the slough like we are."

"Ah, but hobbit-feet are far hardier than those of the Elves," Alcarin said from behind them, his tone light with amusement.  "You tread upon rough ground with hardly a care, but such terrain would tear an Elf's foot to shreds."

"Maybe it's better that we all keep the feet we have," Sam mumbled.

"So you say now, Samwise Gamgee, but if you fall into the River you'll be wanting fins in place of your feet!" Merry chuckled. 

They pressed ahead toward the Entwash, grateful that the air was yet clear.  The hobbits were soon covered in grime from the dell, however, and their muscles smarted with the effort of dragging their feet and cloaks through the mire.  Frodo began to wonder if even falling into the River would be enough to drive the mud from their clothes and hair.  He couldn't recall a time when he had felt so filthy before.  The heat moreover was oppressive, and after a time only the Elves retained their merry spirits.  Aragorn's shoulders were bowed with weariness, but he toiled on determinedly.  So too did Boromir, whose strong frame also reflected fatigue.  Frodo lifted his drowsy gaze to Lelemir, and he felt curiously encouraged at the sight of the Elf princess' serene face and spun golden hair.  Her clothing was mud-stained as well, but her height was such that the dirt had not reached her fair tresses.  She caught Frodo's glance and gave him such a bright smile that he could not help but reply in kind.

The fog descended so swiftly then that Frodo and the others were hardly aware of its presence, until they looked toward their fellows and found they could see only a thick, obscuring whiteness.  Merry and Pippin gave a cry of dismay, but Lelemir's voice rang out ahead.  "Hold tightly to each other, Master Hobbits, for the mist of the Entwash is upon us!  We must move more cautiously now."

Sam's hand found Frodo's, and the two clung forcefully together.  Sam took Pippin's hand, and Pippin Merry's, so that they were all huddled in a knot.  They stumbled along through the fog, unable to see much more than their own feet and those fellows walking directly next to them.  Frodo gripped the rope so tightly that his knuckles turned white, for it was their only connection to Lelemir and the guidance of Aragorn.  Although Alcarin remained a reassuring presence to the rear of the Company, Frodo had no wish to slow the group by losing touch and forcing Lelemir to turn back and find them once more.

"Well, this is a marvelous stew we find ourselves in," Boromir remarked from somewhere ahead.  "Aragorn, are you entirely certain of where we are going?"

"Yes," came the Ranger's answer.  He sounded further away than Boromir had.  "Do not lose trace of me, Boromir, for the others follow you now!  We must pass through the vale before night falls again!"  

"Land's sakes, Mr. Frodo, this fog is going to swallow us all up for sure!" Sam said anxiously. 

"Only if we get separated in it," Frodo replied.  "And we can't do that, since we're all tied together like this."  

"Are you sure you know which direction we're taking?" Pippin asked Frodo.  "What if we walk a little to the right or left of Lelemir, and so tip over into the River?"

Frodo had no answer.  He was seized by a sudden fear that they _would fall in, and that the currents would drag them all under to their deaths ere the others could save them.  He felt Sam's hand tighten on his own, and knew that his friend's terror was at least double that of anyone else's.  "We are going to be just fine," Frodo declared loudly for Sam's benefit.  _

"Well said, Master Perian," said Lelemir as she appeared quite suddenly from within the roiling white mist.  "I heard Pippin's concern from ahead, and I daresay it is valid.  Take my hand, Frodo, and I will guide you thus from now on."

Frodo did as she said, and was grateful for her delicate yet strong fingers clasped with his stout hobbitish ones.  Lelemir led them with greater surety, calling out occasionally to Boromir to make certain that they were indeed following the Man and not a phantom of the haze and sunlight.  The hobbits were glad when they felt the rough wood of the Bridge beneath their feet, for it meant they were no longer in danger of walking off a sloping bank and into the Entwash.  

"See now, Sam," Frodo panted, "we're almost halfway done!  At least now you can't trip and fall into the River."

Sam sounded just as tired, but his relief was evident.  "That's good to know, Mr. Frodo, I'm sure."

"I'll be glad when we get out of this fog," Merry said from somewhere to the left.  "Then maybe we can light a fire and dry off, like Strider said.  Although it is a pity to be so dirty when we go into the capital of this land."  

Frodo almost laughed aloud.  Aragorn had told them of their destination, Edoras, the principal city of Rohan and the home of King Théoden.  "I am sure we will be able to clean up when we get there, Merry.  You Brandybucks are surely the most conscious of manners out of all the Hobbits of the Shire!"

"It never hurts to be clean when meeting with royalty," Merry replied.  

At that, Lelemir laughed cheerfully above their heads.  "I daresay, Meriadoc Perianion, you would be a favorite at my father's court!  Perhaps you shall meet him ere you return to your home."

"It would be an honor, Lady Lelemir," Merry answered shyly, for he had quite forgotten that the Elf maiden was royalty herself.  

The Company continued on in such manner, with the hobbits growing ever more exhausted.  The heat began to make Frodo dizzy, and he was glad for the support of Sam and Lelemir at his arms.  He in turn kept Sam walking upright, and so on down the line.   Alcarin appeared to them once, and then only to speak a few concerned words to Lelemir in their own tongue.  

Though he did not understand the Elvish language, Sam pulled Merry up straight, for the other hobbit was listing to the side, and said, "We'll make it, Lord Alcarin, even if Mr. Frodo and I have to carry these other two all the way to the other side of the dell."

The Elf smiled gently and answered, "I believe you will, Samwise.  Do not despair; I sense the end of this present trial is nigh."

As he had said, the fog was soon lifted from their eyes, and the ground grew firmer under their feet, until they had passed beyond the dale of the Entwash.  Here there were some small trees which had found sufficient nourishment so near the River, but many of them were dead, uprooted by passing Orc companies.  The Sun was sinking low in the sky, and the cool of night was approaching, but it was a welcome chill to the hobbits, who dropped to the ground at the instant they saw Aragorn stop and turn to walk back towards them.  He and Boromir approached with concerned looks, and the former knelt by Frodo's side and spoke to them all, saying, "Rest now, little masters.  We will walk no more tonight, I think, for you are in much need of respite and refreshment.  Here, I filled my water skin at the Entwash; and its drink is said to be cool and sweet, good for reviving thirsty travelers."

Frodo and the others accepted the water appreciatively, and they drank their fill of it, for Alcarin had also dipped his vessel into the River's currents.  As they passed the water amongst themselves, Aragorn continued speaking.  "We have entered the plains of Eastfold, the southeasternmost portion of Rohan.  From here it is a two-day journey to Edoras, and there we will find truer rest than any to be had at present."

"Right now I feel as though I could sleep on a pile of rocks, with all of the Brandybucks, Tooks, Bagginses, and Gamgees dancing on my head and singing one of Bilbo's more raucous creations," Merry yawned.  His fellow hobbits were inclined to agree with him.  After they had drunk, they fell back upon the grass and closed their eyes in relief.  They heard Aragorn and Boromir kindling a fire nearby, and soon the scent of burning wood and grass filled their nostrils.

"Are you so tired that you will not accept supper if we prepare it?" Boromir asked, his voice suddenly close above them.

Frodo opened his eyes and sat up quickly, unsettled by the Man looming over them.  "Yes, I think we could all do with something to eat," he answered, trying to pass off his nerves with a weak smile.  Boromir seemed not to notice; he nodded and returned to Aragorn's side.

Pippin yawned and stretched.  "I think I shall move closer to the fire and dry my legs off," he said, hauling himself off the ground.

"Nonsense, Pip, you just want to be nearer the food," Merry groaned, following his friend.

"All the same, I'm moving," Pippin replied.

"Do you want to go dry off with the others, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked.

In truth, Frodo much wanted to avoid Boromir, who crouched near the fire with Aragorn and the other two hobbits.  The man of Gondor laughed jovially with Merry and Pippin, with whom he had gotten along quite well from the beginning.  But Frodo still could not shake his uneasiness regarding Boromir.  Then he looked at Sam, and saw that his friend was shivering slightly.  "Why, Samwise Gamgee, bless your heart, you'll catch a cold like that!  Why didn't you tell me to get up and move us closer to the fire so you could dry out?" Frodo chided, dragging Sam up with him and guiding the other hobbit over to the cheery warmth of the blaze.

The two Elves stood guard a short distance from the fire, and Pippin was the first who thought to call out to them.  "Won't you come and join us?  The sausages are getting hot, and I know even you two must be hungry by now!"  

Lelemir came swiftly and silently, her expression more severe than Frodo had ever seen it before.  "Aragorn, we cannot tarry here for long," she said quietly, kneeling gracefully beside the Dúnadan.  "Alcarin is certain that the chase is near, and my heart agrees with him."

"We can go no further tonight, lest Frodo and the others collapse from exhaustion," Aragorn replied.  "And what good will we be to him if we also are staggering with lack of rest?"

Lelemir's gray eyes glinted like polished steel in the glistening light of the flames.  "It is dangerous to remain in the open with the pursuit so close at hand."

Aragorn did not waver.  "And it would be unwise to attempt to outrun our pursuers with the Sun so low in its course.  Here we have fire to ward off the enemy should such measures be necessary; and would it not prove easier for our foes to single us out for destruction if we are spread out, fleeing in the dark?  Nay, it is better to remain as we are, gathered together and aided by the flame."  

Lelemir held Aragorn's gaze, her countenance troubled.  Nevertheless, she answered, "Then we shall stay.  Yet my heart cries warning ever more clearly with every passing moment."

"Princess, I would ask that you do not misinterpret my disagreement as careless dismissal," Aragorn said softly.  "I have been raised to value the foreknowledge of the Elves, and indeed I do.  Legolas demonstrated his skills in that discipline many a time while he traveled with the Company from Rivendell.  Yet I have faith that we shall be better able to defend those we have sworn to protect if we linger in our present manner.  Do you trust me in this?"

The Elf maiden paused for a long moment, then gave one measured nod.  "Yes, son of Arathorn, I do."

"As do I," said Alcarin, approaching the group gathered round the fire.  "Aragorn's counsel is sound.  Each one here should have a fiery bough at the ready, however, should the need arise for a shield of flame.  Lelemir and I will keep watch tonight, but attack may come swiftly on the heels of our warning, so take heed quickly!"

"Are we in a lot of danger, or just a little?" Pippin asked quaveringly.

Merry elbowed his younger friend.  "Weren't you listening earlier, Pip?  It's those nasty Black Riders again.  That means a lot of danger, wouldn't you think?"

"Do not give up your courage to terror, young periannath," Alcarin charged them.  "Your valor has carried you through dread akin to this, and so it shall now if you permit it."

Frodo felt a surge of defiant bravery.  He jumped up and placed one hand on the hilt of his short sword.  "Let them come, and may they find an unexpected and ferocious welcome!" he declared.

Aragorn's weathered features creased in a grim smile.  "I have seen far larger creatures quail at the mere mention of the Nine," he murmured.  "You four are a credit to your people, indeed."  He sighed and rose to his feet.  "I do not expect that anyone will be able to sleep well, but you hobbits should at least try, for you are less able to withstand the combined stresses of hard exertion and lack of sleep.  The rest of us will stand guard through the night."

With that, Alcarin and Lelemir returned to their previous stances, and Aragorn and Boromir took up opposing positions, so that the four of them created a constricted sort of diamond.  Anor's blazing disc sank below the horizon with only a cool breeze to herald its departure, and the world was reduced to shades of deep azure and deeper ebony.  The grass of the plain of Eastfold glinted with silvery gray hues much like those that once again wreathed the features of Alcarin and Lelemir.  The white circlet of Ithil rose to its height amid the gleaming spray of stars, and the fire snapped with deceptive boldness at the night air.  As Aragorn had said, neither Frodo nor any of the others thought they could properly settle their nerves enough to sleep; but they did lie down near the fire's warmth, each within easy grasp of a branch that could be set to flame, as Alcarin had advised.  

"Sam, Frodo, do you think the Riders will come tonight, what with the fire and all?" Pippin whispered presently.

"I can't see as how they'll care much what we have near at hand, just so long as Mr. Frodo has that Ring they're after," Sam answered.  

"You're a real comfort, Gamgee," Merry muttered.  "The Gaffer must have told you too many frightening stories when you were a lad, I think."

"I'm just tellin' it like it is," Sam protested.  "Aren't I right, Mr. Frodo?"

But to their surprise, there was no reply.  Beyond any likelihood, Frodo had fallen asleep, his hand clutched around the long bough beside him.

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            Frodo woke with the sounds of shrill screams in his ears.  His eyes popped open in alarm, and he saw Sam hunched over him, shaking his shoulders forcefully.  "Wake up, Mr. Frodo, wake up!" the hobbit whispered loudly.

            "I'm awake, Sam," Frodo answered, sitting up and looking around wildly.  The fire had dwindled to a few glowing embers, and the darkness was rife with tension and clamor.  "What is happening?"

            "It's them, sir, the Black Riders," Sam whispered, as if afraid to voice the words aloud.  His voice shook with horror.  "They're above us in the sky, flying around on big black winged things.  Alcarin and Lelemir are going to shoot them down so they—"  He was interrupted by a piercing howl from overhead, and a dull thud sounded some distance from the fire, which was dwindling to a few glowing embers.  

Sam gave a low moan of terror, and Merry and Pippin scrambled over to join the two of them.  "Here!" Merry said, thrusting the cool end of a burning branch into Frodo's hand.  Pippin gave one to Sam, and the four of them huddled together, with their backs pressed together and the fiery limbs turned outwards.

"Why are Alcarin and Lelemir felling the Wraiths?" Frodo asked fearfully.  "Won't that bring them nearer to us?" 

"Aragorn told us it'll be much easier to defend against enemies on foot than enemies swooping down out of the air," Merry replied breathlessly.  "Plus they can't very well snatch one of us up into the sky if they haven't any flying things to ride."

There were two more shrieks and accompanying thumps, and Boromir appeared out of the darkness, his naked sword gleaming in his hand.  "There were only five of the Nine above us, and now they are two, thanks to the unerring aim of the Elves," he said grimly.  "I am sent to stand guard over you while the others see to the Wraiths."

There was a sound of fierce wailing some distance away, and Frodo could see the dim silhouettes of three combatants engaging in furious battle.  One of the warriors deftly wielded a long silver blade and a flaming bough, and he quickly ceased to be a mere shade in the darkness.  The argent light that shone from his being was that of the Eldarin lords, whose spirits blazed forth when provoked.  Frodo was amazed, for he had briefly witnessed the same brilliance upon Glorfindel when he had confronted the Nazgûl on the banks of the Bruinen.  Now Alcarin seemed to possess the very luster of the stars as he clashed with the two black-shrouded Wraiths, who retreated before the arc of his sword with loud and hideous shrieks of rage.  Their swords met Alcarin's and grated harshly against the Elven-crafted blade as they mounted their defense.

Frodo's attention was dragged from the sight by a second series of Nazgûl howls, which came from the other direction.  Aragorn was caught up in a brutal struggle with two other Ringwraiths, who were not as cowed by the Dúnadan as their fellows were by the Elf-lord.  Aragorn brandished his sword and flame with the same skill that had served to drive the Nazgûl from the dell at Weathertop, but the Wraiths had been caught by surprise then, and were therefore unprepared for his onslaught.  Such, however, was not the case now.  The two Riders that besieged Aragorn advanced without mercy, dodging the sweep of the fiery branch and meeting the Ranger's blows with their own.  Frodo felt a twinge of real fear for Aragorn, who had neither the keen vision nor the inner brightness of the Eldar to aid him.

Then Aragorn's voice rose up in the air, as clearly as a bell on a quiet morn.  "Elbereth Gilthoniel Elentári, ilye tier undulávë lumbulë!  Tintallë lisse, si tiro nin ar aurë entuluva!  Ai, Elbereth!"  _Elbereth Star-kindler, Queen of the Stars, all paths are drowned deep in shadow!  Sweet Kindler, look to me now and day shall come again!  O Elbereth!_

The Nazgûl flinched and gave a horrible cry at the invocation of the Lady of the Stars.  Aragorn assailed his foes while they staggered from the pain brought on by the name of Elbereth, and for a time they recoiled from his attack; for no creature of the darkness could withstand the power within the mere suggestion of that Lady's name.  Alcarin too called out to Varda, as did Lelemir, who had at last been set upon by the fifth Wraith.

While the others were fairly sure in battle against the Fell Riders, Lelemir struggled to hold at bay the black-cloaked creature she confronted.  She was adept with the blade; and as Alcarin had said, the fire and the name of Elbereth did much to daunt the Nazgûl.  Yet it assailed her ever more viciously, until she was forced to retreat beyond the renewed gleam of the fire.  Frodo cried out wordlessly, seeing in his mind the image of Legolas disappearing into the darkness beneath the hooves of the black Nazgûl steeds.  

"We must help her!" Merry cried, drawing his sword and leaping to his feet.  

"I cannot protect you if you flee in all directions!" Boromir answered, laying a hand on Merry's shoulder in restraint.  "You must stay here by the fire, else a Wraith may snatch you up yet!"

"But we cannot leave Lelemir to be slain by the Riders that took her brother!" Pippin said stoutly, echoing Frodo's thoughts.  "Besides, the Wraiths have no flying things, and so they would have to run across the plain!  Not so hard to catch that way!"

Boromir had no time for reply; at that moment, a sound whistled through the night air not unlike that of a plucked string.  A silvery shaft sped through the darkness, impossibly swift, with infallible aim, piercing through the leaping flames of the stoked fire and lodging with deadly accuracy in the heart of Boromir.  The man of Gondor stood upright and still for a long moment, his eyes wide with disbelief, and his fingers found the arrow that slew him.  He strove to see beyond the flames, to catch a dying glimpse of what foe had struck so truly; and with darkening vision he perceived a Silver Rider mounted upon a glimmering gray steed, hurtling toward him out of the darkness…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Chapter Eleven.  

**Note: Thanks to my friend Dangerously Cheezy (here at FF.Net) for Frodo's comment about Sam's swimming ability.  The Cheeze has been heard to apply a similar remark to her own capability in that field.**

**A further note: I got tired of writing for Francine, so I decided to let her go.  She now lives happily under one of the mallorn-trees of Lorien, being fed grapes by blonde archers…**

Please, review!


	12. Dismay

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Twelve**

**Summary: "What were the Riders trying to do?"  "They tried to pierce your heart with a Morgul-knife which remains in the wound.  If they had succeeded, you would have become like they are, only weaker and under their command.  You would have become a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord…" --Frodo and Gandalf at Rivendell**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, The Silmarillion, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  **

**Replies to reviews:**

Treehugger: (wide-eyed stare)  A Black Arrow?  For me?  Ohmagosh, I've created a monster… LOL Thanks for the long and speedy review!  In a fiendish sort of way, I hope you like Chapter Twelve, with its wonderful conclusion to my cliffhanger (evil cackle).  :)

Staggering Wood-elf: Hi there!  Thanks for the great review, glad you liked the chapter!  And here are six exclamation points just for you.  !!!!!! :)

Cassia: OHMAGARSH, I've been reviewed by one of my all-time FAVORITE authors here at FF.net!!!!  What do I do?  Oh, uh, here's a whole batch of chocolate Elf lords and a bag of gummy Rangers, just because you REVIEWED ME!!!!!  And you are a genius if you can figure out what I'm going to do here…do tell me if you were right, because I'd love to know!  Enjoy!

Salak: Oh, nin mellon, I am sorry about the long time between the updates (see notes at the end of this chapter).  I hope you dance for this chapter as much as you have for previous ones!  Enjoy!  :)

Raen: Thanks for the smiley faces!  I'm so glad you're back on the board; I missed you terribly.  Do keep reading (and reviewing) so nicely!  :)

Now, on with the tale…

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            For Frodo, it seemed as though the world was moving at not quite half-speed; whether the delay in his perception was caused by fear or by shock, he could not know.   Events registered on him slowly, and yet their portent reached him with terrible swiftness and clarity.  He saw the silver arrow burst from within the snapping flames, and for one delirious moment he wondered if the fire itself might have given birth to the cruel barb.  Then he watched in open-mouthed dismay as the arrow struck its target with fatal precision.  Boromir rocked back on his heels as the glinting shaft drove into his chest, the spiteful tip of it piercing all the way through his heart and emerging victoriously out the back.  

            In the course of his Quest, Frodo had garnered some experience with death.  He had suffered the deepest sorrow when Gandalf had fallen into the shadows of the chasm beneath the Bridge of Khazâd-dûm, and even the wizard's miraculous return could not fully erase the pain that memory carried with it.  But never before had Frodo been so close at hand for a violent death such as the one that befell Boromir.  The Man stood unmoving for a moment, blinking and touching the dart embedded in his breast, as if he could not quite fathom what had happened.  At length he turned a glazed stare upon Frodo and the others, and said hoarsely, "Run, little ones!"  Then he collapsed, and lay with unseeing eyes directed up at the stars.

            Sam yanked at Frodo's arm.  "Run, Mr. Frodo!  Run!" 

            Frodo moved sluggishly, still absorbing the horrific event they had witnessed.  Merry and Pippin joined Sam in his frantic attempts to drag Frodo away from the fire and whatever foe lay beyond it.  Frodo shook his head and stumbled along with his fellow hobbits, clutching the fiery branch between numb fingers.  His heart slammed against his ribs in terror, and his lungs heaved in quick gasps.  He could not find the voice to cry out to Aragorn or the Elves for help.  "Sam," he panted.  "Call to the others!  I have not the breath!"

Sam opened his mouth to do as his master had asked, but ere he could make a single sound there came a harsh, rasping voice from past the flames and the still body of Boromir.  The words it spoke chilled Frodo's blood, despite the heat of the flames licking closer along the bough he held.  The insistent cries of his friends, the tugging at his arms, and the seemingly distant wailing of the embattled Nazgûl all faded away, swallowed up by that voice.  

            "_Surrender, Frodo Baggins," it demanded. _

            Frodo's feet dragged, and he suddenly found that it was all he could do to keep moving away from the fire and the enemy beyond.  A flare of anger rose in him then, as he realized that it was the Ring's doing, that the cursed thing was eagerly striving to return to the hand of its Master's servant so that it might be reunited with the Dark Lord whose essence it preserved.  "No!" he cried, casting a terrified glance backwards.  He threw himself doggedly forward, helped by his friends' hands.  In his haste, he dropped the flaming branch, which thankfully sputtered and died instead of setting the green grass ablaze.

            "Strider!" Sam cried out.  "Strider, where are you?"

            "Frodo!" the Ranger answered faintly amid the metallic clang of distant combat, but he sounded much too far away.  Neither Alcarin nor Lelemir replied; Frodo and his fellows had not a spare moment to wonder how the two fared.

            There was a loud series of thuds behind them, and Merry and Pippin gave a yelp of fear.  Frodo could make no sound, but his fright was no less.  The enemy had leaped over the fire, emerging from the darkness like an apparition fabricated within some poor soul's nightmares.  In the place of a black-swathed Rider in pursuit there was a creature garbed in silver, mounted upon a silver and white horse.  A great bow of the same hue as its owner's raiment hung strapped to the saddle, having been so placed after its arrow had slain Boromir.  The gaping cavern within the Rider's thickly draped hood yawned ominously at the hobbits, and there was no visible countenance therein.  

Frodo expected the strange silver-wrapped Rider to charge, and he made ready to throw his friends to the ground that they might survive the onslaught, but to his amazement no attack came at first.  Instead, the creature spoke again, sounding as though all the moisture in its throat had dried up and turned to grit.  "Surrender, or you shall see your companions slain before your eyes ere you are taken!" it hissed.

            Pippin gasped, but Merry kept hold of Frodo's elbow and shouted, "If you want him, you'll have to put us all down first!"

            "No," Frodo whispered to himself.  The Silver Rider drew a long white blade from a sheath at its belt, and though its make was familiar, Frodo had no time to contemplate it.  Tendrils of despair twined around his heart, for he knew in that moment that no rescue was coming.  Aragorn and Alcarin were beset by the Black Riders, and could not free themselves soon enough.  Lelemir had vanished into the night, waging a desperate battle with the fifth Nazgûl.  Boromir was dead; his sword lay still in his limp fingers.  Frodo then looked at Sam, and as he gazed upon the other hobbit's alarmed face, he knew that he could not allow the deaths of his friends in a vain effort to save himself.   Neither could he let the Ring he carried fall into the hands of the Dark Lord's servant, however; hence, there was only one course left to him.  Before he quite knew what he was doing, he pulled Sam close to his side so that the Silver Rider's view of their hands would be mostly blocked.

            "Sam," Frodo whispered, just loudly enough so that his friend could hear.  "Take this.  Do what you must."

            Sam felt a small cold weight pressed into his hand, and he stared down in shock at the gold and silver glint in his palm.  Though the fire's light was dimmed at that distance, and his own shadow hindered its flickering beams, the stars and Moon were more than adequate to reveal Frodo's offering.  The Ring lay there, still secure on the silver chain that Frodo had worn about his neck.  "Mr. Frodo, no!" Sam said in horror, thrusting the thing back at his master.  "What do you mean by giving me this?  I shall not take it, sir!"

            Frodo quailed at the yearning in his heart to recover the Ring he had borne; had it so great a hold on him already that he could not bear to be parted with it?  "Take it, Sam!" he hissed frantically.  Then he dug into his pocket and swiftly gave over the radiant Phial of Galadriel, the Lady's gift to him upon his first departure from Lórien.  Somehow, Frodo knew that it would better serve Sam than it would himself.

Sam looked at his master with wide, fearful eyes, and his expression begged Frodo for some kind of explanation.  "But, Mr. Frodo, these are yours!" he whimpered uncomprehendingly.

In a burst of desperation, fueled perhaps by the knowledge that the Silver Rider was growing impatient, Frodo pushed Sam away, saying only, "Beware Men, for they easily fall prey!"

            "What's happened?" Pippin cried.

            There was no time for reply, as at that moment the silver horse reared up with a mighty shriek and bore down on the hobbits with frightening speed.  Frodo shoved Merry and Pippin to the side so that they would not be trampled beneath the beast's hooves, and then he ran, at once terrified and exuberant; for though his own capture was almost certain, he had not failed in his duty.  The Ring would be taken to Mount Doom and cast to its destruction, not by a Baggins after all, but by Samwise Gamgee.  Aragorn and the others would surely aid Sam just as well as they had done for Frodo, and with their help the Quest would yet succeed.  The Enemy had not yet won.    

But all such thoughts of anticipated victory were driven from Frodo's mind as a chorus of hoof beats thundered in his ears.  He was suddenly yanked from the ground, feet kicking in the air, and held tightly in the grasp of silver claws from which there could be no escape.  Frodo felt himself being hoisted effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing at all, and then he was slung over the cold silvery saddle.  The reins slapped his face and neck.  Cold dread seized his heart.  His skin crawled at the nearness of the creature that held him clasped about the chest with an unbreakable grip.  And Frodo found air enough in his constricted lungs to give a single, desolate cry.  "_Aragorn!"_

If there was an answer, Frodo did not hear it, for the silver steed that bore him tore across the plain with the swiftness of a storm wind.  And the Silver Rider, having snatched its prey, turned its mount to the northwest and fled, disappearing into the night as suddenly as it had come. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Sam Gamgee heard the despairing cry of his master, but both Frodo and his strange silver-clad pursuer had evaporated into the night that lay outside of the fire's dancing gleam.  "Mr. Frodo?  Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried, scrambling to his feet.  He pushed the Phial into his pocket, wincing at the necessity of the somewhat uncouth handling of the Lady's gift, and he drew his sword with his right hand, still clutching the Ring in his left.  There was no reply to his call, and Sam felt fear surging in his throat as he considered what might have happened.  "Mr. Frodo, it's your Sam calling!  Can you hear me?  Oh, answer me, do!"  The hobbit squinted as he tried to see past the dark curtain before him, and for once in his life he really did wish he had Elf-eyes instead of his own.

            "Frodo!  Answer us, lad!  Where are you?" Merry cried out, also sliding his blade from its short scabbard and peering into the shadows.

            "What if he's gone?  Taken, I mean?" Pippin asked quaveringly, and the tip of his sword trembled tellingly.  "What will we do?"

            "I suppose we'll think of that when we get to it, but right now Frodo needs us.   Come on!" Sam commanded.  "Hold on, Mr. Frodo, we're coming for you, sir!" he called, heading in the direction Frodo and the Rider had taken. 

            He was promptly halted by a towering figure that emerged from the darkness in a swirl of dark robes.  The Nazgûl's blackened sword sang through the air in a vicious arc, and would have cleaved Sam in two if he had not been yanked backwards by Merry and Pippin.  The hobbits set up a loud cry of alarm, retreating as fast as they possibly could.  Their short swords they held before them, but the blades seemed pitifully small when compared with the heavy weapon wielded by the Black Rider.  Sam in particular hastened to get away from the creature, for he still clutched the gold band and its chain to his breast, and he knew the Rider would be looking for it specifically.  Sam did not know whether the Rider could sense the Ring's presence since he hadn't put it on, but he did not want to make himself an obvious target.

            "See here, you big dead thing, I'm tired of you chasing us!" Merry shouted defiantly, his voice shaking only a little.  "Why don't you go bother someone your own size?"

            "They already have Frodo, what do they want with us?" Pippin choked out under his breath.

            The Nazgûl did not reply to either of them, but merely continued to advance.  It raised its black-hafted weapon and prepared to strike its prey down.  Sam tried to cry out to Strider again, but there was no air in his lungs.  Fear had stolen his breath away.  "Oh, dear Mr. Frodo, dear sir," he mumbled.  "I've failed you."  For he expected at any moment to be cut down by the wraith's blade, and then dispossessed of the very Ring he and the others had pledged to destroy at any cost.  He had not only failed Frodo, but all of Middle-earth as well.  

Never before had Sam felt such a heavy weight on his heart; he suddenly understood well his master's burden, and also the strange anxiety he had seen in Frodo's eyes on the occasions when the other hobbit had thought no one was looking at him.  Frodo had carried with him not only a Ring and a vow, but also the constant harrowing dread that he would fail, to the ruin of everyone he knew and loved.  Had not Sam's heart been filled with terror, it would have swelled with pride to consider Frodo's courage.  As it was, Sam crushed his hand and the Ring to his heart and raised his sword, determined to keep the thing from the Enemy as long as possible.        

            The Black Rider paused then, as if deciding which of the hobbits it would slay first, and Sam heard Pippin swallow hard beside him.  Suddenly, the Rider let out a piercing shriek as a shining blade engraved with Elf-runes burst through the front of its black shroud.  As the astonished hobbits watched, the Rider was speared quickly through its immaterial chest, and then the flashing long-knife was snatched back out and driven through the creature's empty hood.  The wraith stumbled forward and whipped around to face its attacker, howling dreadfully; Sam did not know if the thing could feel pain, or if it was just angry at the interruption.  He and the others drew back as far as they could, thinking to avoid being trampled in the ensuing battle.  They were relieved and curious, however, for they knew not to whom they owed their lives.

            "Si hi tela, thaur Úlairi!" cried a familiar voice.  _This ends now, foul wraith!_

            It was Lelemir, returned from the dark into which she had disappeared some time before, battling perhaps the very same Nazgûl that she now challenged.  Her flaxen hair fell about her face in disarray, and a streak of crimson blood ran down one side of her countenance, but her bright eyes sparked with pique.  "I am not so easily overcome, fell creature!" she snapped, bringing her long and deceptively trim blade to bear once more, so fiercely that it thrust the heavier Nazgûl weapon to the side.  "And these little ones are not yours to take this night!"

            Sam, Merry and Pippin watched in amazement as the Elf princess drove the larger Nazgûl backwards through sheer force of will.  The Rider seemed somewhat surprised by her ire, and was apparently willing to give ground in order to wear out her tenacity.  Lelemir gave the creature no respite as she whipped her blade about in tight arcs and complex spirals, seeking a hole in the Nazgûl's defense.  Impalement would in no way harm the creature, yet the Rider fended off the attack out of habit and reflex.  Their weapons clashed with metallic rasps and strident clangs, sliding apart only briefly before coming back together.  The Nazgûl's blade scored twice, but the hurts were minor, and Lelemir persisted with little more than a pained grimace to alert the enemy to her injuries.  Yet though her long-knife was quick, she was unable to tear again into the shifting black robes of her opponent; the wraith was a skilled combatant, and it blocked every blow just soon enough.  

            Then the Nazgûl reared back quite suddenly and dealt a brutal blow, one that flung Lelemir to the ground and knocked her weapon from her hand.  The Elf maiden tried to leap up, but her foe planted a blackened metal boot on the back of her shoulders and pinned her to the earth.  She grasped for her fallen blade, but it lay beyond her fingers' reach.  Sam gave a horrified cry and thought to charge to her rescue, for the Rider was raising its sword to deliver the killing blow.  Lelemir made no sound, and her golden hair spilled to the ground to obscure her expression; only her fingers clawing into the grass betrayed her fright.  

            Just as Sam mustered his courage, he was relieved to see Aragorn charge into view near the Nazgûl and its intended victim.  With a wordless shout, the Ranger swung his heavy sword in a vicious arc that knocked the Rider's blade away from Lelemir's prone form.  "By Elbereth, you shall claim no more victims tonight!" Aragorn declared grimly.

            The Black Rider shrieked, enraged at having been thwarted yet again.  It had no choice but to release Lelemir and contend with the new threat posed by the Man.  Lelemir sprang up, gasping for air; the Nazgûl's tread had lain heavy upon her for those moments, and all the breath had been crushed from her lungs.  She seized her blade from the ground and made as if to rejoin the battle, but she was halted by Aragorn's command: "Lelemir, stay with the hobbits and guard them!"

            Sam feared for a moment that the princess would argue, but she did not, choosing instead to obey the Ranger's directive.  Lelemir slowly backed away from the escalating battle between Aragorn and the Nazgûl, directing a fierce glare at the creature before turning away.  She darted over to where the hobbits clustered together in a tight knot, wisely keeping her blade at the ready in case of another attack.  Her gray eyes swept the three gathered before her.  "Where is Frodo?" she queried in a dreadful tone that brooked no hedging.

            "G-gone," Pippin stammered out, unnerved by the implacable ferocity yet seething behind the Elf's calm gaze.  "A silver Rider got him.  We couldn't stop it."  This last ended in a strangled sob, as the hobbit was unable to contain his grief any longer.

            Lelemir cast a bleak look across the grass at Aragorn, who fought still with the Rider, and she touched a hand to her heart as though it ached.  "The Ring is captive, then?" she murmured.     

            Sam could barely speak, but he pressed the words out of his clogged throat.  "No, Princess.  I…I have it here, in my hand."

            Lelemir's gaze snapped round and lanced through the hobbit.  For a long moment, she did not speak.  Then she answered very quietly, "You have it?  How did this come to pass, Master Perian?"

            "Mr. Frodo gave it to me!"  Sam cried miserably, clenching the Ring so tightly his fingers throbbed.  "I didn't want it, but he gave it anyway!  Right before the Rider took him!"  With those words, Sam lost all control of himself and began to weep inconsolably.  He dropped to his knees and doubled over, pressing his forehead into the cool grass.  He no longer cared that a battle yet raged nearby, nor did he hear the ringing of the swords as they smashed together.  In his ears was the last cry of his master, and in his memory he saw only Frodo's desperate face.  Heaving sobs shook his entire body, and he was dimly aware that Merry and Pippin knelt at his sides.

            It seemed to Sam that several hours flew by the wayside, but in reality there was very little passage of time.  The next things he knew were the gentle hands at his shoulders, lifting his face from the ground.  He blinked his tear-swollen eyes at Aragorn, whose face reflected gentle concern.  "Are you still with us, Master Samwise?" the Ranger asked softly.

            Sam swallowed, and then whispered, "Yes."  His throat was very dry.  Merry and Pippin had not moved, and they wordlessly touched their friend's shoulders to offer support if it was needed.  Sam could not bring himself to smile, not even weakly, so raw was his grief for Frodo.  He realized with a start that the wailing of the Nazgûl had ceased, as had the metallic ringing of battle.  "Is it over?" he asked, coughing.

            Aragorn handed the hobbit a flask of water, glancing behind Sam as if exchanging glances with someone.  "Yes, for the moment," he answered.  "The Riders have all fled."

            Sam drank gratefully, but as soon as he had finished he was once again conscious of the small, cold weight in his hand.  He took in a deep breath.  "Strider," he forced out, "Mister Frodo is gone.  The thing that killed Boromir took Frodo as well, but I don't know if it killed him or not; it was too dark to see.  But I have the Ring here.  And Galadriel's gift."  His words were choppy and all out of order, but Sam was too tired and depressed to care overmuch.

            Aragorn nodded wearily.  His face was lined with pain.  "Yes, Sam, I know.  It grieves me to question you on the matter, for your heart is perhaps the most wounded of all, but I must know this: was it a Nazgûl that took Frodo?"

            "It was like one, but not quite," Merry answered for Sam.  "It was all dressed in silver, and rode a silver horse instead of black.  And it spoke to us!"  The hobbit shuddered in remembering.  "It spoke to us," he repeated softly.  "It told Frodo to surrender, and that it would kill us if he didn't."

            "That is most unusual.  The Nine do not normally bargain with their prey," said Alcarin's fluid voice.  He was behind Sam, somewhere to the left.  

            "I wonder now if it is indeed to be counted among the Nine," Aragorn said somberly.  "Lady Galadriel gave me word of a strange silver-clad rider ere we departed Lórien the second time, but none there knew aught of its origin or its motive.  I believe it has at last revealed its purpose this night; but I am yet mystified as to its loyalty.  Does it indeed heed the call of the Dark One in Barad-dûr, or is its master some other unknown foe?"  Turning back to Sam, he then asked, "Did the creature say anything else?"

            Sam shook his head.  "No, no, nothing else.  Mr. Frodo gave me the Ring and ran away, to get the Rider away from the rest of us, I suppose, now that I'm thinking of it."  He looked down at the ground, feeling new tears stinging his already sore eyes.  "And then we heard him call out, and that was the end of it.  The next thing we knew, Mr. Frodo was gone and one of the Black Riders was attacking us."

            Aragorn's dark eyes were shadowed with sadness, and his tone was compassionate.  "And so you are now the Ring Bearer, Samwise Gamgee.  Are you prepared to accept that charge?"

            Sam met the Ranger's gaze.  "No, sir, I'm not," he said honestly.  "But for Mr. Frodo's sake, sir, I'll try my hardest."

            The Dúnadan nodded once, acknowledging that.  "Then I give my pledge to you as well; that if by my life or death I may aid you, so be it.  My sword is at your service."

            Sam bit his lip, hoping his fear didn't show too much.  "Thank you," he whispered.

            "What will we do now?" Pippin asked softly.  

            Aragorn stood, pulling Sam to his feet as well, and ushered the hobbits toward the dying fire.  "There is nothing to be done tonight except to rest and recover from this night's hardship," he said.  "Tomorrow we continue for Edoras."

            "What about Frodo?" Merry ventured flatly.

            Sam saw the Ranger's shoulders slump a little, as though he carried a great load to which another burden had been added.  "We cannot help him now," Aragorn said firmly.  His tone was strained; and while Sam hated the words, he knew that Aragorn despised them all the more, for he was the one required to utter them.  "Frodo's fate lies in other hands.  We must continue on and carry out the Quest Frodo began, or his journey thus far was in vain."

            At that, Pippin began to weep, but very quietly.  Merry took his friend aside and sat with him, holding the younger hobbit's shoulders comfortingly.  Sam sank to the ground next the two; the terror and sorrow of the night had quite exhausted him, even without including all the running and hauling Frodo along.  Aragorn was busy stoking the fire, and the Elves stood guard as they had before, if not more vigilantly.  Sam watched Aragorn for a time, and it was then that he noticed that Boromir's body was missing from where he had fallen by the fireside.  He looked all around, and finally saw the figure lying flat on the ground on the opposite side of the blaze.  Boromir had been covered with a thick cloak; Aragorn's, most likely.

            Aragorn caught Sam's look, and he sighed sadly.  ""A noble man, and a true son of Gondor," he murmured.  "How I wish he had not come to this end, and so far from home!  But there is nothing to be done now, save to bring tidings to his father and brother in Minas Tirith."

            Sam remembered Frodo's last words to him: "Beware Men, for they easily fall prey!"  He felt a sudden inexplicable surge of fear at the notion of entering the greatest City of Men, but he kept those thoughts to himself.  "What shall we do with…with the body?" he asked hesitantly.

            "I would that we were able to carry it to Denethor, so that he could give his son and heir a proper funeral," Aragorn replied.  "But we cannot.  Therefore Alcarin and I will construct a sort of pyre in the early morning, and thence we will bid farewell to Boromir.  Alas! this should not have happened," he muttered, and then fell silent, and would say no more on the matter for the moment.

            Sam was quiet for a long while afterwards, and then he looked at Aragorn again.  As if for the first time, he perceived the rents in the Ranger's clothing and the bloody gash at his temple.  "Oughtn't someone to look after your wounds, Mr. Strider?" Sam asked, reaching for his pack to find some cloth and the healing salve given him by one of the Elves of Lórien.

            Aragorn smiled faintly in spite of his grimness.  "If you're of a mind to, Sam, then I suppose you must.  Thank you for your consideration."  For the Ranger knew that activity would remove painful thoughts of Frodo, for some moments at least, and he wished to give Sam what respite was possible.  Therefore he shed his thick outer tunic and allowed Sam to tend his cuts as the hobbit thought best.  The injuries were trifling compared to others Aragorn had suffered in the past, but he was greatly heartened by Sam's concern.  

            When Sam had finished, he stood back and brushed off his hands.  He was not quite his old self, not really; the grief in his face remained still, and Aragorn suspected it would not fade for a long while.  The voice was almost like the old Sam's, however.  "Well, that will have to do, I suppose.  Not very good, maybe; certainly not as good as Master Elrond would have it, but there's nothing to be done about that.  Do you hurt any less, Strider?"

            Aragorn smiled in return.  "Aye, Master Samwise, I feel much better.  Although I expect I still look as foul as ever I have, wouldn't you say so?"

            Sam stared at him, then gave a surprised chuckle.  Aragorn was referring to a remark Frodo had made in Bree, soon after the hobbits had first met the mysterious Ranger called Strider.  A letter from Gandalf had proven Strider's sincerity, and Frodo had said that he'd believed the Ranger to be a friend even before such proof was given, for "one of his spies would—well, seem fairer and feel fouler, if you understand."  And "his" had referred to the Enemy.  

            Strider had merely laughed, replying, "I see.  I look foul and feel fair.  Is that it?"  So now, with his question to Sam, the Dúnadan was making a small jest.

            "I do say so, Mr. Strider, I do," Sam answered, a tiny smile still tugging the corners of his mouth upward despite the haunted look in his eyes.  "But here now!  It is Lelemir's turn, for I know she was hurt while protecting us from the Rider before you came.  Where is she?"

            "She and Alcarin stand guard, but I will take her place for a time," Aragorn said.  "Wait, and I shall send her to you."  With that, he stood and replaced his outer tunic, then moved away into the shadows.

            Some moments after, Lelemir did indeed arrive, and she came to sit by Sam.  The severity of her earlier expression had faded, and she once more appeared the calm and kind princess Sam had come to trust and care for as he had her brother Legolas.  The thought of the missing Elf brought yet another lump of pain to Sam's throat, but he swallowed it, unwilling to drown himself in his own hurt.  He instead concentrated on Lelemir.  He had seen the bleeding cut on her brow earlier, and now he observed the slashes left in her tunic by the Ringwraith's cruel blows.  The earthen-brown riding leather of her outer clothing was ripped, but more distressing were the rust-colored stains gathered around the tears.

            "Begging your pardon, Lady Lelemir, but it won't do to leave those cuts to themselves," Sam said, blushing.  "May I tend them?"

            Lelemir smiled gently, having spoken to Aragorn before coming over.  "Of course, Sam.  Is that a salve of Lórien I smell?  I thought so; the Galadhrim are skilled in the craft of healing."  As she spoke, she unstrapped her quiver and Elven-sheaths from her back, and then gingerly removed her outer travel tunic, revealing the morning-gray raiment beneath.  One of the wounds traced a russet path slantwise across the bone directly beneath the juncture between her neck and shoulders; and also the ribs on the lower right side had taken a blow.  Lelemir spoke reassuringly to Sam, saying, "It is truly much less appalling than it appears, Master Perian.  Remember, the Elves heal quickly, and with less strain than do mortals!"

            "All the same, I would feel better if there was at least some balm on those wounds," Sam said stubbornly.  "And I insist on cleaning the cut on your forehead.  It won't do to leave it, I say!"

            Lelemir waved a hand submissively.  "Then you must certainly do as you will, Sam, for I shall not hinder such determination to show kindness.  Only leave the other wounds to me; I shall attend to them myself."

            Sam agreed, and it was with great tenderness and care that he cleaned the blood from the Elf maiden's fair features.  The cut, he was relieved to see, was small, and so when he had cleaned it, he applied a dab of salve and pronounced it tended.  

            Lelemir had sat still and quiet throughout the hobbit's ministrations, but now she smiled appreciatively at him, so that he blushed again and ducked his head.  "Thank you, Master Perian.  Surely I could not have asked for a better mending.  And now, as I said, I will tend the other wounds.  Sit beside me for a while, and speak if you wish."

            Sam sat down, for thus far his short stature had compelled him to remain standing in order to see to his companions' injuries.  He watched Lelemir part the slashed fabric concealing the wound at her left shoulder, and she winced fleetingly as she dabbed the blood away.  Then she did as the hobbit had, cleaning and spreading healing salve on the cut.  She repeated the process for the injury to her ribs.

"Thank you for saving us from the Black Rider," Sam said suddenly, as if just remembering.  "I forgot to tell Aragorn the same, but I will tell you now.  Thank you for saving our lives."

            Lelemir sighed then, and for a moment she gazed into the fire with a curious sadness in her eyes.  At length she spoke.  "Truly, Aragorn deserves your gratitude more than I.  I was foolish to rush upon the Ringwraith as I did.  I was rash to think that I alone could best the creature, for it had just put me to the ground but a minute earlier!  Nay, Sam, I very nearly caused the deaths of us all, and for that I must ask forgiveness."

            Sam was surprised at her words.  "Well, I forgive you, even though I don't rightly see how it's your fault the Rider is as nasty as it is.  You stopped it from slicing us right down the middle, didn't you?  I think that's reason enough for thankfulness on my part."

            "Nevertheless, I should have attempted to draw the wraith away from you and the others, instead of trying to overpower it as I did," Lelemir said softly.  "Legolas and I inherited our father's pride in place of our mother's temperance, I know.  And now I fear that Aragorn and Alcarin think me a child, impulsive and unreliable."  She turned her face to Sam, and regarded him soberly.  "I swear to you, Samwise Gamgee, I shall not make the same mistake again as I did this night.  But if you now regret my presence with you, I will go with all haste, for I would not cause you more worry."  In her voice and expression there was no pleading, and neither was there any manner of wheedling; her words were genuine, of that Sam was sure.

            "Nonsense," he said kindly.  "If you'll excuse my saying so, Lady Lelemir, it is silly twaddle to even think of your leaving us.  I won't have it, and I'm sure Strider and Lord Alcarin feel the same.  And I do feel safer with you here," Sam added firmly.  "Whatever your mistake, it's pretty clear to me that you know about it (even if I don't), and have resolved to fix it, so there's no need for this talk of leaving!"  For emphasis, he snorted in a way that was oddly reminiscent of Bilbo.  "Leaving, indeed!"

            Lelemir stared at him for a long moment, and then her face was transformed as a brilliant smile broke into her expression.  "A burden is lifted from my heart, Master Perian," she told him.  "You have eased my troubles somewhat, and for that I heartily thank you.  But come!"  She lowered her voice.  "We must speak more quietly, for your companions have fallen asleep."

            Sam looked over and saw that it was true; Merry and Pippin had curled up and drifted off into slumber.  "Ah, well, they need the rest," he muttered.  "And so do I.  But I don't think I shall be able to sleep.  Is Lord Alcarin in need of tending?" he asked abruptly.

            Lelemir had finished seeing to her own wounds, and she eased her outer tunic back on and refastened her weapons to her person.  "I do not know, but I shall certainly ask him.  Again, thank you, for both the mending and your words."  Then she was gone once more, into the darkness of the aging night.

            Sam sat alone for a few moments, thinking.  He wondered, as he had many times already, where Frodo was, and what he was doing.  Sam supposed his master was likely still being carried on the silver horse, since it hadn't been long since his capture.  "Where are you going, Mr. Frodo?" he murmured to himself.  "And what will happen when you get there?"  He sighed and looked down at his hands, feeling new tears creeping into his tired eyes.  Sam hadn't the heart to place the Ring at his neck just yet, so instead he had slipped it into his pocket, the one unoccupied by the Phial of Galadriel; somehow, it had seemed wrong to nest the two objects within the same pocket.  He felt an urge to take the Ring out and look at it, but he shook his head and refused to do so; just carrying the thing was unnerving enough, without concentrating on its presence.

            "It would avail you much to sleep now," said a clear, gentle voice from above, "for troubles often seem most bleak when viewed through eyes heavy with weariness."

            Sam looked up at Alcarin, who was just then folding his long frame down upon the ground next to the hobbit.  Sam fidgeted with the grass in front of his crossed legs; he was still a little shy around the Elf.  Younger, merrier folk such as Legolas and Lelemir were one thing; old and powerful lords like Alcarin were quite another.  Sam didn't know exactly how to address him.  "You're right, of course, Lord Alcarin," the hobbit said politely, "but I think I would feel the same way even if I'd had a long rest beforehand, sir."

            Alcarin's dark gray eyes shone with firelight, reminding Sam of the fierce sheen that had come upon the Elf during the battle with the Nazgûl.  "Mayhap, Master Perian, mayhap.  This has been a distressing eve for all, and most especially for you and your companions.  I see that the masters Brandybuck and Took have taken their leave already."

            Sam nodded, glancing at his slumbering friends.  "That they did, sir.  Myself, I'm too tired to sleep, if you know what I mean.  And I can't stop thinking about poor Mr. Frodo, either," he added glumly.  "I wish he were still here, or even that I had been snared with him.  At least then he wouldn't be all alone with that monster that took him!"

            "Your fear for your master's plight is admirable," Alcarin said softly.  "But think on this: had you been captured alongside Frodo, of what help could you be to him, or to this Fellowship?  Would Frodo not grieve all the more for your entrapment in the midst of the peril that has seized him?"

            Sam lowered his head and said nothing for several moments.  Finally, he replied, "Yes, I suppose that's true.  Mr. Frodo wouldn't have wanted anything to happen to the rest of us; that's why he ran off in such a hurry, so the creature would pay attention to him and not us."

            Alcarin sighed at length, and his tone was sorrowful.  "I too mourn Frodo's loss, Samwise.  There are few in my recollection whose courage and spirit matched those of your master.  Had I the power, I would pursue him even now, and wrest him away from the Enemy myself.  But alas! such was not meant to be.  Frodo's fate now rests in the fair hands of the Lady of the Stars."

            At that, Sam looked up at the glittering field of lights sprayed across the darkness above.  He remembered the green leaf that had fallen into Frodo' lap in the boat, and Aragorn's words about hobbits being under Elbereth's protection just as Men were.  He touched the Phial still in his pocket, and focused a silent plea upon the brightest star he could find.  Whether it was indeed Gil-Estel, Sam didn't know, but all the same he felt a little better.

            Abruptly, Sam remembered his purpose in requesting Alcarin's presence.  "Oh, me dear!" he muttered.  "I had completely forgot what I was going to ask you, Lord Alcarin.  I was wondering, did those Black Riders hurt you at all?  What I mean to say is, do you need any tending?  I would be happy to do it for you, sir.  If you want me to, that is, because I certainly can, and it would be a privilege."  Sam felt his ears burning with his own awkwardness.  

            But Alcarin chuckled deep in his throat.  "I thank you, Master Hobbit, but nay, the wraiths touched me not at all.  Theirs was a potent defense, to be sure, but they had not the strength to injure."

            "I should have expected that, sir," Sam said truthfully, though privately he was awed.

            The Elf lord's expression took on a serious air.  "Such is not always so, Samwise.  There were but two Nazgûl set upon me, and while they were endurable, I assure you that mine was no easy task.  I say this not to lessen your confidence, but to forestall impressions of invulnerability.  Even I would be hard-pressed to repel, as was once said, an Orc army."

            Sam realized that Alcarin was referring to his whispered comment in the Hall of Lórien.  He blushed even more furiously than before.  "Yes, sir," he mumbled.

            Alcarin's expression remained open and amused.  "Be not discomfited, Master Perian.  There is no need to treat me as royalty, for that is not my place and I shall not behave as such.  Neither are you obliged to address me as 'lord,' for that is a title reserved for use by those under my command in Rivendell.  Friends do not address each other so formally, I think.  Therefore, if it seems good to you, I will no longer call you by your proper name of Samwise, but merely Sam, and also Master Perian, for that is what you are in the Elder Tongue; and you may in return apply to me my given name, Alcarin."

            Sam looked in wonder at the Elf-lord; for in truth, he had not expected such kindliness.  Alcarin was dignified and gracious after the fashion of his kindred, but he had a rather grave manner about him that did not lend itself to overt friendliness.  Yet perhaps he had sensed Sam's uneasiness, and wished to alleviate it.  "Well, sir, you've surprised me, no lying about that," Sam finally said.  "But I think I prefer your suggestion.  I will be Sam to you.  Though I will probably slip at one time or another and use your title, if that's all right."

            Alcarin gave the hobbit a smile, and replied, "Yes, that will be forgiven on occasion."  His fair features relaxed then, and his gaze grew concerned.  "Now, as your friend, Sam, I must ask how you fare at this moment.  Though a smile touches your face, your spirit remains bowed.  I fear what may happen if you do not regain your confidence ere you embark upon your task; for I have seen many a valiant soul crumble inwardly with grief, only to give way under the strain of hardship."

            Sam's hand went to his pocket without his even realizing, and he swallowed.  "I don't know about the crumbling part, Lor—I mean, Alcarin.  But I do feel a little empty inside, like a piece of me got torn out and taken away with Mr. Frodo."  His voice faltered a bit when he spoke Frodo's name, and it seemed as though a well of feeling he hadn't known existed had opened up inside.  "He wasn't just my master, you see, but my dearest friend as well.  I couldn't bear it if anyone was cruel to him."

            Alcarin's face was grave.  "I see that your heart grieves more bitterly than most, Sam, and more so now that you must decide the fate of this burden that was thrust upon you.  That is why you do not wear the Ring about your neck.  You do not believe you will have the strength to fulfill the task given you." 

            Sam was strangely quieted all through at the Elf's words, as though his entire mind had hushed in order to hear.  "Yes," he murmured, drawing the Ring from his pocket and laying it on the grass before him.  He stared at it forlornly.  "Mr. Frodo is so much stronger and wiser than I am.  I'm just Sam Gamgee, you know, not a Ringbearer or anything else awfully special.  I wasn't chosen by whatever fates picked the Bagginses to get caught up in this whole mess.  What if I fail, when he would have succeeded?"  

            "It is not given to me to see what lies ahead of you, Master Perian," Alcarin told him solemnly.  "Yet thus have I seen: while your heart cries out in pain, your kindness drives you to persevere in service to others.  Were you not firstly concerned with the welfare of Aragorn, Lelemir and myself?  In truth, this is testimony to the stamina of your spirit.  Therefore I say to you, Sam, that you possess far more strength than you credit yourself with, and it would be a misfortune indeed were you to underestimate yourself unduly.

            "And what of strength and wisdom?  Indeed, there are many beings that roam the land who would be deemed by the Wise as far more capable than a young hobbit of the Shire.  Yet this charge was given into the hands of just such a hobbit, and your master has served his calling with valor greater than that of numerous purported 'nobler' beings I have witnessed.  You and your fellows, Samwise Gamgee, have filled me with wonder in the short time I have known you.  Though you know not the way, and are pressed on every side by hardship and peril, you do not waiver.  Hence, the source of your strength lies not in bodily might, nor in intellectual prowess; but instead in this—your love for and steadfast allegiance to one another.  So long as these bonds remain unbroken by your own will, they shall forever endure, even in the heart of the Shadow.  

            "One more word of counsel, and then I shall leave you to your rest.  Upon every course there are many paths; and though two persons may share a goal, they may not be meant for like paths.  Fear not that you will stray from the road Frodo might have chosen, for your way may depart from his ere you reach the goal he strove for.  Choose for yourself the paths you will take, Sam, and do not allow your master's shadow to lead you astray.  Frodo and Bilbo were indeed chosen by fates, as you call them, to bear the Ring; but who is to say that you were not also chosen, to carry on in their stead?"  The Elf lord placed a hand on Sam's shoulder for a brief moment, then removed it and concluded, "I believe you shall indeed persist in your duty, Sam, for that is your way.  Such diligence is a gift to be greatly admired."

            They sat in silence then, and Sam thought long about what Alcarin had said.  He felt no great relief in his heart, for his master's absence was still a heavy pain.  But the journey ahead seemed a little less dark, and for that the hobbit was grateful.  He looked down again at the Ring, glinting dully in the dying firelight, and it was then that he felt a rush of resolve.  "Well, then, if this is my luck, then I may as well take it in full," Sam said aloud.  "My old gaffer always says it's best to take things as they come, especially when other folks are at stake."  

With that, he grasped the chain and slipped it over his head, tucking the gold band beneath his shirt.  Its weight was new and unfamiliar, but at the same time not.  It felt right, somehow.  Sam didn't know whether that was a good thing, but he hadn't the wits to consider it just then.  His eyelids were much heavier than they had been, it seemed, and his yawn was such that he thought he might just split his head in two.  "I think I shall sleep now, Lord Alcarin," Sam mumbled drowsily.  "Oh, bother, there I go again…"

            "Do not trouble yourself, my young friend," Alcarin said softly, watching as the hobbit tipped over and curled up on the grass where he sat.  In no time at all, Sam's breathing evened, and he was asleep.  Alcarin rose without a sound and returned to his watch under the stars, joining Aragorn and Lelemir in their continuing vigil.  There were precious few hours left ere the Daystar would rise, and then would begin their journey to Edoras.  

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            End of Chapter Twelve.

            In the next chapter, I plan to return to Lórien and pick up the continuing story of Gimli and the Elves.  This is necessary if I am to further the events concerning the Renewed Fellowship, Lasselanta, and the captive Frodo. 

            Please review!


	13. Shifting Tides, Part 1

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Thirteen**

**Summary: If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, The Silmarillion, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  Hey, I did the best I could…**

**Replies to reviews:**

Treehugger: (evil snicker)  Hee hee hee…I AM a terrible little devil, aren't I?  And you are too eloquent to be an idiot!  :)  So glad you enjoyed the silver arrows and the conversations between Sam and Co.  I especially thought long and hard about how I was going to approach the relationships between the established characters and my originals—before the originals ever appeared, in fact—and I'm rather pleased with the results.  Any thoughts on the subject?  I am feeling better, thanks.  And as always, thank you for your beautiful review.  Enjoy the story's progression!

Raen: (wide-eyed stare)  You actually held your breath that long?  Wow, what a compliment to this humble little writer…thank you ever so much for the review!  Yeah, "wondrousness" is a word, BTW.  I've gotten over my illness, thanks for the concern!  Enjoy the continuation below!  :)

Now we pick up in Lothlórien, where Chapter Nine left Gandalf and Haldir on the bank after seeing the Renewed Fellowship off, and Gimli waving farewell to them from the plain of Egladil.  See that chapter for a memory-refreshing if you need to.  Otherwise, on to the tale…

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            Gandalf and Haldir waited upon the shore of the Silverlode until the three Elven-gray boats bearing the Renewed Fellowship veered round the River's bend and left their sight.  The former remained silent, but the latter murmured a soft prayer under his breath.  The mallorn trees waved in the breeze, rustling their limbs and singing a farewell melody known only to the Firstborn, who cherished them of old.  Scores of golden leaves floated from their moorings upon the branches, gliding down to alight on the River's currents, there to be borne to far-off lands whose peoples marveled at the tattered shreds of flaxen plants that swept their shores.  Nestled in the verdant grass, a scattering of small white blooms shyly peeped up at the somber observers, like children far too young to understand the gravity of their circumstances.  The great trees, however, swayed in the wind and tolled their ancient awareness of the magnitude of what they witnessed.

            "Laurië lantar lassi súrinen," Haldir sighed, listening to the song of the trees.  _Like gold fall the leaves in the wind.  The breeze pulled at his fair locks, whispering in his soul, and like all of his kindred he hearkened to it as naturally as though it were a dear friend.  He turned his bright gaze to regard Gandalf, called Mithrandir in the Elven tongue.  The Istari's argent robes gleamed even brighter than did fiery Anor's cresting disc, and his sober gaze still trailed after the departed Company.  "Shall they succeed, Mithrandir?" Haldir asked softly._

            The wizard looked at the Elf, and there was no trace of his usual mirth in his eyes.  "They must," he replied simply.  "But to dwell upon that is not our task.  Their fortune has passed to other hands.  We must do what we may to aid them, and also to hold secure the remainder of Middle-earth."

            They turned and walked back the way they had come.  Mithrandir's robes whispered against the ground, and Haldir's feet made no sound at all.  They spoke in soft tones; it was the Elven way to disturb the peace of the forest as little as possible, particularly when uncertainty lay in the land.  The Istari knew well the customs of the Elves, for he had spent much time among them in his many years upon the shores of Middle-earth.  They conversed concerning many things both near and distant, as the two were equally fascinated by tidings of the smaller goings-on in the lives of the folk of Middle-earth.  

Mithrandir had traveled further and seen more than had Haldir, and so the wizard did much of the talking; though the Elf was content to relate the recent word of warning from Thranduil's forest kingdom.  It was said that the forces of Dol Guldur were marshalling for an attack, but none knew whether the assault would first strike Mirkwood or Lothlórien.  Therefore the Elves of both realms were preparing themselves to meet any such incursions of the Enemy's servants, doubling the watch at the borders and traveling more heavily armed than was customary.  Mithrandir was troubled by Haldir's words; above all else, he wished the last few Elven sanctuaries peace.  But he knew, as did the others among the Wise, that this was not what the dooms held for Celeborn, Thranduil, and their equals.  The Firstborn would be called upon once more to struggle against the Shadow that had beset them for so many ages past.

Then the time came when they parted ways, for Haldir was to rejoin his brothers at the Golden Wood's increased northern watch.  Mithrandir, however, would go on to Caras Galadhon, there to take his leave of the Lord and Lady, for he meant to depart as well the very next morning.  Of his intentions he would say very little, save that he was going to cultivate some new insurgence against the forces of the Dark Lord.  Haldir wondered at the Istari's slight allusions, but he refrained from inquiring further, for Mithrandir often moved in ways unseen, and it was generally best to let him do so unhindered.  If any persons were to know of the wizard's designs, they were most likely to be Celeborn and Galadriel.  And so Mithrandir _Nimcollo and Haldir separated, bidding each other fair travels, and each continued his own way._

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            Gimli gazed about him at the multitude of Elves assembled on the plain of Egladil.  He had given them but passing glances upon first arriving in their midst, for he had been among those intently awaiting the passage of the boats conveying the Renewed Fellowship of the Ring.  And when his friends' gray vessels had come nigh, Gimli had lifted a hand in farewell, but had not spoken.  Neither had he given thought to any of the Fair Folk congregated on the plain, for his attention had been entirely leveled on the faces of his departing companions.  The hobbits, whose pale features reflected anxiety only thinly veiled.  There were also Aragorn, dignified as ever he was, and Boromir nearly as fine, each at the helm of one of the Elven crafts.  Alcarin of Rivendell guided the third, and behind him was placed Lelemir, whose long tresses caught the Sun's rays and made Gimli's breath catch in remembrance of Legolas.    

When that the Company had passed by, however, the Dwarf took more notice of those gathered with him.  They were possessed of hair both golden and dark, and arrayed mostly in robes of white and blue and silver; although there were a good number of brown-and-silver-clad warriors with bows slung over their shoulders and quivers of arrows strapped to their backs.  They spoke quietly with one another in their own language, paying little heed to the Dwarf, for many of them had grown accustomed to him, as he had been long in the Golden Wood and had also merited the praise of the Lady.  Some directed keen glances Gimli's way, but none were particularly unfriendly, merely interested.  Even Hithílion, the emphatically disapproving advisor to King Thranduil, schooled his expression and did nothing that would offend Gimli; although the Dwarf was well aware that Hithílion did not like him.  It was questionable whether that distaste was because of the long-standing enmity between their peoples, or because of Lelemir's decision having been spurred by Gimli's loyalty to her brother.  In either instance, Gimli was not at all perturbed by the Elf counselor's cool manner.

Galadriel and Celeborn stood alone at the Tongue of green grass that extended out into the gleaming Silverlode.  They were solemn and beautiful, two of the ancient kindred of Elves; and Gimli knew that he had never before seen any persons as fair and wondrous as the Lord and Lady of Lórien.  He had begun to feel somewhat coarse and incongruous, standing there among the finest of an intrinsically fair people.  He lifted his chin, however, and threw down those thoughts from the start; had not Legolas, who was just as fair in the Dwarf's mind as many he saw on the green plain, called him a good friend?  And had not the Lady herself smiled warmly on him and given him the three precious strands of her hair, which he kept coiled near to his heart within small protective sheaves of metal drawn from his own armaments?  

The Elves began to drift back into the forest, given silent leave to depart once the three boats had drifted past Egladil.  Gimli remained where he was, satisfied to look longer upon the austere splendor of the green plain, and the lofty golden trees that bordered it, and the glittering water cheerfully lapping the shores.  There too was the Lady of the Wood herself, and Gimli could never tire of standing in her radiant presence.  At length only he, Galadriel, Celeborn, and a few maids and warriors lingered in the clearing.  

Finally, the Lord and Lady turned from the River and walked to where Gimli stood quietly awaiting them.  Their faces were grave, but a clear light shone in their eyes.  "So you have held back this day for the sake of your friend Legolas, the son of the Elven-king of Mirkwood," Galadriel said softly, her bright gaze searching the Dwarf's face.  Once that look might have been disquieting, but now Gimli basked in it as one might in the tender warmth of the Sun.  The Lady continued, "You are welcome in the Golden Wood for as long as you remain here, Gimli.  All of my people know of you, and also of your purpose in lingering under the mallorns, and though they may be wary, most shall be courteous.  I have arranged for you to abide in one of the flets settled among the high limbs of the trees, for attack may be nigh, and I would not have you near to the ground.  There will soon be danger enough while you are awake, without worrying for your slumber."

Gimli bowed.  "Thank you, my Lord and Lady, for your kind leave and consideration.  If only I may recover my lost friend, then you shall have the full gratitude of my heart, if it is not already given.  But how now shall the evening resume?  The Sun already sinks in the sky, and it will begin to darken when we have returned to the bright City."

Celeborn's features reflected kind empathy.  "Peace, Elf-friend.  I see that you desire to prepare at once for the deliverance of Legolas, but I must advise you that some time will pass by before such action may be attempted.  Isengard's plain is a mighty stronghold of the Shadow, and there is uncertainty in my mind as to whether even the Galadhrim and Thranduil's people together yet retain strength enough to hope for victory against Saruman's forces.  Then too, there are increased reports of the Enemy's creatures massing at Dol Guldur, the dark tower in the southern portion of the Woodland Realm.  It may be that Lórien will suffer attack in the days to come, and then will the warriors be needed here to protect the Golden Wood.  But we shall see what can be contrived."

"Fear not that Legolas will be forgotten," Galadriel said gently.  "Thranduil's youngest is in my heart at all times, for I knew his father of old, and his father before him. Good kings all, though perhaps led somewhat astray by love of treasure.  Legolas Green-leaf is indeed the brightest star of their lineage, to my mind, for he is yet unconcerned with the jewels and silver that his father values so highly.  Nay, his heart runs and sings amid the trees of the forest; so like a child at times!  But the years have gladly sharpened his discernment, thus his ingenuous nature is well-tempered by wisdom."  The Lady's face grew sad and troubled.  "_Ai, son of Glóin, all of Mirkwood and Lórien as well would deeply mourn the loss of one such as your friend.  There are so few of his ilk that yet linger in this land.  I would that a method of rescue could be arranged at this very moment, for Saruman's hand is certain to be unkind to any friend of those who stand in his path to dominance.  Yet we must suspend our fears at present, so that the matter may be regarded with minds free from anxious imaginations."_

"You speak truly, Lord and Lady, as always," Gimli said then, at once distressed and comforted by their words.  "And if the Wood is assailed, be assured that my axe shall not remain idle.  What a shock the foul trespassers shall have when they see a Dwarf wielding his weapon in defense of an Elven woodland!"

"A surprise, certainly," Celeborn agreed.  "I think it shall be something of a revelation, too, for some of the Golden Wood's more discriminatory inhabitants.  But we need not discuss such individuals, for they are unlikely to show their faces to you, and you shall not be maligned by any who abide here."  The Elf-lord inclined his head briefly, and said, "I do thank you for your pledge to defend the Lady's realm; the Firstborn have truly lost excellent aid for the cooling of the friendship between our two peoples!  I daren't think of how those enemies who come upon the axe of a Dwarf may meet their end."

Gimli grinned then, a full smirk that twinkled from behind his thick beard.  "Swiftly and messily, I assure you, my Lord."

Then the Dwarf was surprised and pleased to see the Lord of Lórien return his smile with an equal measure of ire.  "That is encouraging, Friend Dwarf," Celeborn said, his silver-gray eyes flashing intensely at the contemplation of any enemy assailing the forest haven.  "Most encouraging.  Come now, we must meet Mithrandir in the City, for he wished to speak to the Lady and I ere he sets forth tomorrow morn."

Gimli turned to walk with Celeborn and Galadriel, who were in turn followed by the silent maids and warriors who comprised their convoy.  He was saddened by the news of Gandalf's imminent departure, for he had come to into a grand respect and fondness for the old wizard—who somehow did not seem as old as he had before his fall in Moria.  Gimli did not quite understand the remarkable change which had come over Gandalf, but he was duly impressed by the tale of his battle with the Balrog at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm.  Gimli was also markedly unsurprised that the wizard intended to leave, for he had come to see that Gandalf and his ilk were needed in many places, and especially with Shadow creeping into the lands of virtually all of the Free Peoples.      

In truth, the Dwarf had been more amazed at the severity with which Celeborn had responded to Gimli's remark about the prospective demise of the invading Orcs.  The Elf-lord seemed so austere and solemn, and far above such things as war and carnage.  Yet in Celeborn's look there had been something dangerous, a warrior's glare whose potency Gimli would hesitate to incur.  The Dwarf greatly desired to ask the Lord of Lórien wherefore he had come by such familiarity with battle, but he sensed that it was a somber memory for Celeborn, and so did not inquire further.  

Then was heard the soft murmur of Lady Galadriel, and she spoke as if in response to Gimli's unspoken questions.  "Many a peaceful ruler has been forced in the past to struggle in warfare for the preservation of what is good in the land," she said.

"And have you, great Lady?" Gimli asked tentatively, unable to imagine her as anything but the pristine Lady of Lórien, a being of surpassing beauty and ancient knowledge.  He could not fathom her as a warrior upon a bleak and blood-washed battlefield.  

Galadriel looked down at him then, and her gaze held the memory of dark times long past.  "Even I," she replied simply.

No more was said on the subject then, but Gimli's esteem for the sovereigns of Lothlórien had swelled greatly.  His own people were renowned not only as skilled craftsman and architects, but also as fierce fighters.  He felt a new and strange kinship with the Lord and Lady, for the look in their eyes had closely resembled that of many a Dwarf returning from grim battle.  

Gimli smiled gruffly to himself as he thought of how good it would feel to bash sizeable dents in the skulls of any Orcs who dared assault Galadriel's woodland.  Not that the forest itself was anything of particular interest to a Dwarf, of course; it was for the sake of she who dwelt there that he would knock holes in the enemy lines.  Also he would fight for his captive friend's sake, for Legolas had been taken by Orkish kin of some strain or another, and Gimli intended to take revenge on any of their kind that he could.  Really, the more he considered it, the more he hoped for just such an opportunity in the days to come.  If the hordes of Dol Guldur came, Gimli of the Dwarves would be waiting for them with sharpened axe and sharper spirit.

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            End of Chapter Thirteen.  

**Name notes: Earlier in the chapter I referred to Gandalf as "Mithrandir _Nimcollo," which is a name I came up with that literally means "Gray Wanderer of the White Mantle."  _**

            In other news, I'd like to send out a major big "thank you" to the administrative folk here at FF.net for taking the time to upgrade the software and whatnot…your diligence and determination in providing a quality fic site are greatly appreciated, and have not gone unnoticed.  Bless your hearts.  Also, thank you for working quickly to ensure that the site was offline only for the minimum amount of time necessary.  Three cheers for FF.net's Head Honchos!!!  

            Chapter Fourteen is in production.  Thanks for reading; please review!


	14. Shifting Tides, Part 2

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Fourteen**

**Summary: If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, The Silmarillion, The Complete Guide to Middle-earth by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  **

**Replies to reviews:**

Treehugger: I'm glad you liked the link chapter.  And hey, I'm a big fan of Celeborn, too!  I nearly wept when the poor guy got one flippin' line in the movie (and he sounded all slow when he said it, too!).  Unfortunately, the context of "The Weeping Wraith" won't allow me to actually send Celeborn into battle or anything.  However, you'll likely get to see another rather well-known Elf do some royal butt-kicking in the chapters to come…and I may have something special in the works for Celeborn himself.  But anyhoo, thanks for the review, as always!  And you say that I am wicked?  (evil cackle)  You have no idea, _nin__ mellon, no idea what's in store…Legolas is not forgotten!  And lest I forget, thank you for your kind words regarding the meshing of the originals with the establisheds (ßthat's not a Webster-approved word, by the way)._

Marcus Hale: Ah, a Silver Wraith fan!  Welcome to "The Weeping Wraith," my friend.  I, too, would like to see some more Lasselanta-action; however, before I can do any of that I need to set up some circumstances which I think you will like.  It may be a few more chapters before we hear from either the Silver Wraith or the Renewed Fellowship, but all will be placed in due time.  In the interim, enjoy the doings of Gimli and the Elves!  They promise to be…interesting.  :)  Thank you for your review!

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Few inhabitants of Middle-earth could imagine the stuff of Dwarf dreams.  Some had speculated on that very subject, and most of the resulting suppositions were scornful indeed, saying that those who dwelt and delved in the belly of the earth were likely given to fantasies of dirt, wine, and gems, and nothing more.  In many an instance, those scoffers were justified, for Aulë of the Valar had gifted his creations with thoughts bent on earthly craft, and not much more besides.  However, in the luminous heart of Lothlórien slept a Dwarf whose mind was given to imaginings of far more substance.  Gimli of Erebor dreamt of fantastical things: twining memories of days old and new, merry and bleak; and also fresh designs of his own making, sporadically winsome and vile.      

Gimli had supposed in his waking hours that he was gifted with more wits than some of his kin; his attempts to discuss his nightly visions with his own people had awarded him mostly bewildered glances.  By a strange quirk of contrast, Legolas of Mirkwood had offered much consideration in discussing the matter.  He had spoken to Gimli of the waking-sleep of the Firstborn and the reveries therein, describing with delight the brilliance and beauty of Elven dreams.  And he had listened curiously to his Dwarf companion's telling of his own dreams, which frequently contained light and song just as the Elf's imaginings did.  The songs in Gimli's thoughts, of course, were not drawn from Elvish lore, nor were they so beautiful in the ears; but they were tunes from the Dwarf's youth, heard over a full mug at one of the feasts in his father's hall.  The light was not that of the stars, but of the great roasting-fire by which he had heard many a tale spun by his kinfolk.  Gimli remembered well his Elf friend's blithe laughter, and his cheery response: _"Our two peoples are indeed more closely bound together in sleep than they are in waking, Master Dwarf!  Mayhap I shall dream tonight of a mountain, and you of a forest; and we shall each be confused and consider ourselves addled."_

            In truth, though he would reveal the deeps of his heart to but a few, Gimli missed his friend terribly.  Grudging respect had ripened to genuine fondness in his mind, and he had come to consider Legolas both a worthy warrior and a valued companion.  Neither of them truly understood the other, for their peoples and paths were far too dissimilar; however, they each made a genuine effort to esteem what the other held dear.  That, more than any likeness between them, was at the heart of their uncommon friendship.  

The words of Galadriel and Celeborn on the grass of Egladil had served to greatly encourage Gimli, for he had begun to question whether Legolas could truly by salvaged.  Galadriel's gentle reassurance, in especial, had lifted Gimli's heart.  After bidding a good night to the Lord and Lady and wishing Gandalf fair travels, he had retired to his _flet without delay.  The bedding there was vastly different than any found in the Lonely Mountain, but it was surprisingly comfortable: a veritable nest of pliable tree limbs and cool leaves.  With the evening's discourse in his mind, and the soft melodies of nearby Elves in his ears, Gimli had fallen into deep slumber._

It seemed to Gimli that he had only been asleep for a short time before he was awoken by a voice and a hand shaking his shoulder.  He was lying on his side with his fingers wrapped about his axe's hilt, as was his custom.  Before him knelt a lone Elf dressed in brown and gray.  The Dwarf squinted slightly in the yet dim lighting so as to perceive his caller.  The Elf was young and fair-skinned, with eyes that gleamed in the faint glow of the luminous vines woven with the boughs that comprised Gimli's _flet.  "Wake and stir, Master Dwarf," the Elf said upon seeing that Gimli had roused from his slumber.  "The Lord and Lady have need of your service."_

            At once shrugging off all vestiges of sleep, Gimli rolled up to his feet, axe in hand, and tugged his chain-mail shirt downwards so that it was again properly positioned.  "What need is there to be met at this hour?" he asked briskly; for the Sun had not yet risen, and the night lay still upon the earth—yet not in Caras Galadhon, for the City of the Galadhrim shimmered always with radiant lamps and gently glistening vines.

            "A great force of the Enemy has been seen approaching from across the River to the east," the Elf replied earnestly.  "They will reach the Wood ere the Sun climbs the Sky.  I was sent to ask that you accompany the warriors of Lothlórien in the defense of my Lord's realm."

            Gimli grinned in spite of the ominous report, pressing his helm down more firmly onto his head.  "With much pleasure, Master Elf.  Am I to follow you?"

            The Elf nodded and turned toward the _flet's ladder.  "Yes.  I will take you to join my Lord's host, for I am also to go into battle this morn."_

            "Well then, I would have your name, as we are to be fellow warriors today," Gimli said, causing the Elf to pause.  "I am Gimli son of Glóin, although I expect you knew that before."

            "I did, but that is no matter.  My name is Nimfëalórien, and I am certainly pleased to greet you," the Elf said congenially, and he turned to face Gimli with a small smile of apology.  "Forgive my lack of manners, good Dwarf!  I am fairly distracted by thoughts of the forthcoming enemy force."    

            "No offense is taken.  I am glad to meet one so agreeable as yourself, Nimfëalórien," Gimli stated.  He thumped his axe hilt against the flooring.  "Let us be off!  I would be present for the welcoming of our enemies to the Lady's Wood."

            Nimfëalórien gave Gimli a surprised glance, but said nothing in reply.  He nimbly descended the thick-runged ladder and dropped to the forest floor without a sound.  Gimli followed with less grace but with equal quickness, and so they were soon traveling at a swift pace under the silent trees.  The Dwarf was not at all familiar with the expansive forest realm, but he assumed they were moving toward the outskirts of Caras Galadhon.  The towering mallorns stood hushed, gold-leaved monoliths laced with silver moonlight.  The tiny pale flowers gathered at their roots hid their faces, waiting for the coming dawn to bathe them with light enough to drown the worries of their elder kinfolk.  It was as though the Wood itself dreaded the coming battle, knowing that both Elf and plant would lose numbers in the course of the conflict. 

Lothlórien's bright City hung suspended far above the ground, and the glittering shine of many lamps reached down to lend a faint golden glow to those walking among the foundations of the mallorns.  Even so, Gimli found it difficult to see much apart from the silhouettes of the tree trunks and Nimfëalórien's shadowy figure walking at his side.  Caras Galadhon was much quieter than was the norm.  So quiet, indeed, that the Dwarf noticed his ears straining to hear even a note or two of song from the _flets clustered high in the branches above.  "This stillness is disturbing," Gimli muttered._

"I did not know Dwarves were fond of Elven songs," Nimfëalórien remarked.

Gimli was not certain how to respond.  He had cautiously judged Nimfëalórien to be a civil sort, but he could not now tell if the Elf was sincere or mocking.  "Most are not," Gimli said neutrally.  "But I have never experienced such silence in this place, and it is unsettling."

"Ah."  Nimfëalórien nodded, glancing up into the shimmering collection of dwellings.  "You speak truly, Gimli.  This calm is rare here."  He paused, then said, "I meant no insult, if any was taken; I have been curious to meet you, for visitors to the Wood are much fewer than in olden days.  I know but little of your folk, although I have been most eager to learn more."

"Have you never traveled beyond the borders of this realm?" Gimli asked in amazement.

Nimfëalórien sounded somewhat chagrined.  "Nay, not I.  'Tis not of my own will that I remain, though I love this Wood above all; rather, it is the desire of my father, whom I am yet obliged to obey."

"There is no shame in heeding the bidding of your seniors," Gimli replied.  He now perceived that Nimfëalórien was much younger than Legolas and Lelemir.  It was usually difficult to determine the ages of Elves, for they were immortal and nearly unchanging in appearance.  However, in the course of the first Fellowship's journeys Gimli had become familiar with Legolas' manner, and he could see that his present companion was not nearly so experienced in the world.  According to Gandalf's story of days past, Legolas and his sister were well over two thousand years old.  Gimli wondered how many years Nimfëalórien could claim. 

"That is true," the Elf was saying, "yet my heart longs to journey beyond the Wood, and to meet such folk as yourself in the lands past."

"Perhaps you shall indeed do so, Nimfëalórien," Gimli said.  He had decided that he was pleased with his young guide's seemingly intrepid spirit.  It would be some time before he could ascertain the actual degree of the Elf's courage, but Gimli liked Nimfëalórien enough to avoid giving him grievous insult by asking his age.  "I admit, I have found many of your people more to my liking than I would ever have imagined was possible.  My friend Legolas has taught me much about his folk."

"Legolas?  The missing prince of Mirkwood?"  Nimfëalórien's tone turned sober.  "Yes, all who dwell in Lórien have heard of his fate.  It is said that you remained among us to seek a means of rescue for him."

"They who say such are truthful indeed," Gimli replied.  "But for Legolas' captivity, I would surely have continued in my duty to aid Frodo in his Quest."

"Are all of your people so eager to travel about on long journeys, Gimli?  Or do most remain in their mines and caves?" Nimfëalórien asked curiously.

But for the innocence in the Elf's tone, Gimli might have bristled with indignation at Nimfëalórien's offhand use of the term "cave."  Instead, he replied, "Dwarves do not live in mere caves, Master Elf!  If I could but show you the old halls of Durin's Folk, that now darksome place called Khazad-dûm—or Moria, in your tongue!  It was not always a place for shadow and fear, good Nimfëalórien, but was once filled with fair crystalline lamps and instruments of gold and silver; music and merriment were ever in the air.  The passageways shone bejeweled by the hands of inspired Dwarves, who then fashioned many spears and corselets of no less splendor for the warriors who there dwelt.  Alas! those days have passed.  Yet the Glittering Caves of Helm's Deep remain untouched, it is said, and ah, the caverns described by those who have chanced to visit there: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled-zâram in the starlight.

"And, Nimfëalórien, when the torches are kindled and men walk on the sandy floors under the echoing domes, ah! then gems and crystals and veins of precious ore glint in the polished walls; and the lights glows through folded marbles, shell-like, translucent as the living hands of Queen Galadriel.  There are columns of white and saffron and dawn-rose, Nimfëalórien, fluted and twisted into dreamlike forms; they spring up from many-colored floors to meet the glistening pendants of the roof: wings, ropes, curtains fine as frozen clouds; spears, banners, pinnacles of suspended palaces!  Still lakes mirror them: a glimmering world looks up from dark pools covered with clear glass; cities, such as the mind of Durin could scarce have imagined in his sleep, stretch on through avenues and pillared courts, on into the dark recesses where no light can come.  And plink! a silver drop falls, and the round wrinkles in the glass make all the towers bend and waver like weeds and corals in a grotto of the sea.  Then evening comes: they fade and twinkle out; the torches pass on into another chamber and another dream.  There is chamber after chamber, Nimfëalórien; hall opening out of hall, dome after dome, stair beyond stair; and still the winding paths lead on into the mountains' heart.  Caves!  The Caverns of Helm's Deep!  If I were a lord or peasant in such a place, I should never leave, but remain and bask in the fair glow of its lamps.  So it should be of no surprise, Nimfëalórien, when I say that far travel is not common among my folk; for no creature who lives in comfortable and bright abode wishes to be gone from it for long.  What say you to this word, Master Elf?"

"Ah!  Gimli, you do me a disservice in speaking so!" Nimfëalórien exclaimed with a wondering laugh.  "For even now I long to see such places as you describe—and that is much to my family's dismay, I assure you—but I am glad for your words.  I do intend to someday contrive to glimpse the wonders you speak of, if it is possible."

Satisfied by the reply, Gimli harrumphed into his beard.  "If it seems good to you, then I would enjoy escorting both you and Legolas on a fine tour of the realms of which I have spoken.  Certainly you would be in far less peril with a Dwarf as your envoy!"

"Certainly," Nimfëalórien agreed.  "I confess, Master Gimli, you have amazed me with your speech.  There are many more questions I would like to ask of you, but we are nearing our assignment of my Lord's host now."

"We shall have time for exchange later," Gimli said.  He decided that he did like his young escort.  In truth, Nimfëalórien rather reminded the Dwarf of a youthful Legolas; Gimli had heard some rumor of his friend's restlessness in his father's halls, a tension that had in the past caused something of a disturbance in the Elvenking's house.  Perhaps Legolas' willingness to journey far from his home had been motivated by a longing not unlike that which seized Nimfëalórien, Gimli thought.

The two emerged from the shadows of the mallorns.  Gimli had earlier taken note of a decrease in the lights overhead, and he had surmised that they were nearing their destination.  They came into a large clearing ringed by small trees with white hides and pale leaves.  The grass gave a dark sapphire sheen in the clear, stark moonlight.  Gathered in the clearing was a company of Elves dressed in brown and gray leathers that would serve to render them almost invisible in the woods of their realm.  Two hundred or so were assembled there, all with gleaming bows and quivers bristling with arrows.  Most also bore long-knives strapped to their backs, but there were some who rested their hands upon the silvery hilts of long swords girded to their waists.  Strangely, none wore mail or helm, nor did they bear shields to ward off enemy blows.

The Elves there congregated stood in some semblance of order, but not in filed lines like the armies of Men.  Gimli knew not the particulars of Elvish defense devices, but he suspected he would soon become acquainted with them out of necessity.  He nodded to the warriors as he followed Nimfëalórien through the ranks, presumably heading toward the commander of the assemblage.  Some of the Elves nodded gravely in return, having been informed of Gimli's presence and intent.  Most either deliberately looked away from the Dwarf, or stared intently at him with brilliantly starlit but completely blank gazes.  Gimli was not discomfited by their impassiveness, but he did wish he had a few of his own folk to watch behind him during the battle.  He did not know whether most Elves would have honor enough to cry warning to a Dwarf, even one considered an ally, should an enemy approach from the rear.

Nimfëalórien approached a tall, stern-featured Elf whose hair shone like polished silver in Ithil's radiance.  They spoke a few words in their own language, and then Nimfëalórien beckoned to Gimli.  When the Dwarf had drawn near, Nimfëalórien said, "Master Gimli, this is Lord Silmeros.  He commands this wing of Lord Celeborn's defense force."

"Hail, Master Dwarf," Silmeros greeted him in Westron, without a trace of disdain or superiority in his tone.  "You are to accompany my Lord's forces into battle this morn, I am told."

"That is the way of it, my lord," Gimli answered.  

"What manner of skill do you bring with you?" Silmeros asked briskly.

Gimli clasped his heavy battle-axe in both hands and held it slantwise against his chest, so that the sharpened head with its double blades caught the stars' gleam.  "This axe has belonged to my family for three generations, Lord Silmeros.  It craves the blood of those who dare tread falsely upon such hallowed ground as this."

Silmeros regarded the Dwarf with a keen eye.  He nodded once, a pleased but grim smile tugging at one corner of his lips.  "And such blood it shall have, Master Gimli.  Come, listen.  We embark soon for our position, and you would do well to know into what battlefield you are going."

 The Elf-lord stepped away then, and though he did not greatly raise the volume of his voice, every ear was immediately attuned to his words.  Gimli listened, but to his dismay, Silmeros was speaking in the clear tongue of the Galadhrim, a fair language not known to Gimli's folk.  Nimfëalórien, however, stood by the Dwarf and murmured the Westron rendition of Silmeros' address.  "_Warriors of Lórien," Silmeros began; and now his gaze grew more intense than before, as though he were a hawk bent on collecting prey.  "__We are to be the archers of the second ring of the Lord's guard.  The first and outermost ring of defenders will be ahead of us; the third will remain behind.  We shall secret ourselves in tree and bush, behind rock and mound, so that the enemy bowmen have no target on which to let loose their own assault until they are near enough for our blades to cut them down.  Upon such time as our arrows are futile, we shall forsake them in favor of the sword, knife," he glanced at Gimli, then continued, "__and axe.  Our charge is to destroy as many of the Orcs as possible before they can further penetrate the Wood.  Not one of their filthy kind must be permitted to pass through the three rings alive.  You are to give chase only to the last dregs of the enemy wave; otherwise, remain in position and slay the Orcs as they rush upon us."  Here Silmeros paused, as did Nimfëalórien, and then the two lines of dialogue continued, "__Let us depart.  May the fair Lady of the Stars lend her grace to us this day, and may she prevent harm to her own."_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            The dawn's earliest golden flickers had barely brushed the heights of the mallorns when Gimli's ears detected the far-off sounds of combat.  He could just distinguish the clamor of harsh Orc voices raised in threatening howls, as well as the battle-cries of beset Elven warriors.  Nimfëalórien listened as well, but his ears were far more keen than those of the Dwarf.  Gimli supposed that every Elf in the second ring was likely paying heed to the as-yet indistinct din; though he could not see any save Nimfëalórien.  The warriors of the Golden Wood were exceptionally skilled in concealing themselves, and it was for that cause that none had donned sparkling mail or other armament.  Though Gimli had seen a large number of them deftly scaling the nearby trees, he could no longer perceive any movement, not even from those hidden on the ground.  The Dwarf had been the most difficult to mask, for he was not only an ungainly shape, but also had little experience in camouflage; fortunately, Nimfëalórien had taken great care in the matter, and had ensured that no approaching Orc would catch sight of Gimli unless it became ensnared upon his axe.

            "The enemy comes," Nimfëalórien remarked softly, listening to the distant noise of conflict.  He was crouched behind a small stone outcropping that seemed barely large enough to shield the Elf, though he had folded himself into a very small parcel indeed.    Nimfëalórien glanced over at Gimli, who stood as motionless as he could near the rocks.  The young Elf could not suppress a half-smile.  "Forgive me, Master Dwarf, but you do resemble a flowering shrub of some sort," he said.

            Gimli snorted.  He could just see the Elf's merry expression from where he was placed.  "Bah!  If not for your ridiculous idea of disguising me with all these weeds and plant rubbish, I would enter this battle with much more dignity."

            "Lord Silmeros commanded such," Nimfëalórien answered, and his grin widened mischievously.  "I cannot be faulted if Aulë did not make your folk to be easily hidden from sight."

            "Dwarves do not hide, Elf," Gimli growled under his breath.  "And I do not think Lord Silmeros suggested that you make me into a spring flower-hub."

            "Ah.  Well, good Gimli, I do not think that you understand much of what is said in the Elvish tongue," the young Elf said lightly.

            To which Gimli would only grumble a phrase in his own language about Elves, and how he didn't understand why he always got drawn in with the crazy ones.  "I shall remember this, Nimfëalórien, mark me, I shall," the Dwarf muttered.  

            There was a bare whisper in the trees, and Nimfëalórien suddenly tensed.  Gimli could not see the Elf very well, but he heard the change in his voice.  "There is word from those above," Nimfëalórien breathed.  "The enemy draws nigh.  We are to prepare to engage."

            "Some of us are," Gimli remarked to himself.  He did not like being made to wait until the Orcs had drawn too near for the bow and arrow to be useful, for there would be many minutes between.  Until then, Gimli had been instructed to remain hidden, so that he might surprise the stampeding _yrch, as Nimfëalórien had referred to them disgustedly._

            Gimli glanced at the squat stone ridge to his right, behind which Nimfëalórien was slipping a white shaft with speckled feather from his quiver and nocking it to his bow.  The color of the young Elf's hair was finally apparent in the growing daylight; it was neither dark nor light, but instead a warm chestnut-auburn shade.  Gimli had not been able to perceive the unusual hue in the darkness of early morn.  He was somewhat surprised, for nearly all of the Elves he had previously seen were possessed of strictly dark or golden locks.  He supposed Nimfëalórien's family must be of a peculiar strain that boasted earthen-colored tresses.

The Dwarf then turned his dour gaze to the forest before him.  It appeared mild for the moment, as tranquil and beautiful as ever it had been: the great trees loomed overhead, filtering the Sun's gathering radiance through their golden crowns; the ground was carpeted with small mosses and fallen leaves; the air smelt of life and freshness and peace.  Smaller trees—either young mallorns or cousins to them—waved nervously in a slight breeze, for they bore indiscernible archers secured within their dark-leaved boughs.  Patterns of warm light played over the forest floor, pooling in some places where there were breaks in the great canopy above.

            Yet all would soon be obscured by the howl and clash of battle.  Though he did not share an Elf's affection for the trees, Gimli did lament the disturbance of such serenity, which was surely a commodity in scarce supply.  Galadriel's haven would suffer the scars of war just as would all other great realms of Middle-earth.  Gimli gritted his teeth and glared into the swirls of dissipating morning fog.  "May the Enemy come to fear the blades and bows of Lórien," he snarled under his breath.

            Nimfëalórien then spoke soft words in his own tongue, and from all around there came assenting murmurs.  The young Elf glanced at Gimli and explained, "I have told them what you said, Gimli.  Most here do not speak the Common."  

            Gimli opened his mouth to make reply, but then there came a sound, one that echoed throughout the Wood and drew all eyes and ears to its source.  It was the howl of many Orcs, many foul voices raised in a bellow of challenge that made the Elves' blood run cold and Gimli's blood to boil.  There was the clash and clang of swords against shields, spears against trees, for the enemy wished to discourage the Elven force ere the attack commenced.  However, a clear Elvish voice rang out above the tumult, speaking words that Gimli did not know, but that filled his soul with fierce courage all the same.  He saw Nimfëalórien drawing back on his bowstring, aiming the deadly shaft into the Wood before them.  

            And they waited.

            Gimli had taken part in many battles, even before his days as a member of the Fellowship of the Ring.  His people had long been at war with the Orcs, wargs, and fell Men that crept ever closer to the borders of the remaining Dwarven strongholds in Middle-earth, the chief of which was Erebor, wherein Gimli's father and kin yet lived.  He had seen many attacks, both as a defender and as an aggressor, and many were the times his axe had served to ward off Orkish blades.  But never in all his years had the Dwarf seen such a horror as the force that poured from the outer fringes of the Golden Wood.

            They came as an endless rippling tide of black.  Shrieking, bellowing Orcs clad in dark armor and bearing like blades and shields.  They howled unceasingly as they rushed toward the hidden Elven host.  Their leaders, fearsome Uruk-hai bred in the caverns of Isengard—_curse you, Saruman! Gimli thought—barked out commands in the ugly Black Speech.  Black were their banners, and emblazoned with crudely-fashioned red Eyes.  But most gruesome and terrifying of all were their trophies: at the front of the black horde were a few Orcs who carried aloft jagged black poles with the severed heads of slain Elven warriors jammed atop.  They were scarcely recognizable, crushed and with golden hair matted with blood and dirt._

            Gimli caught sight of Nimfëalórien's shocked expression, and he prayed swiftly that the young Elf would not waver.  The voice from the trees, presumably that of Lord Silmeros, shouted out a command, and suddenly the foremost droves of the enemy force pitched forward onto the ground in mid-stride, clutching at the Elven arrows buried in their ruined bodies.  The Orcs behind continued unhindered, without any thought of their fallen comrades.  There was another clear shout from above, and a second wave of pale shafts streaked into the dark host, felling innumerable creatures and sorely wounding many more beside.

            Then a third instruction shot through the Wood, and a terrific melee broke loose.  Gimli inferred that the last command must have been something akin to _"At will!"  A hail of arrows speared down and away, out of the leaved boughs and rock outcroppings, darting through cracks in defensive hedges and tracing straight paths into the midst of the Enemy's horde.  The Orcs came on with louder cries than before, single-mindedly rushing into the seemingly impenetrable shower of lethal Elven shafts.  Yet for every one that fell writhing, there looked to be two more that sprang up to continue the charge._

            Though his people were not so skilled with bow and arrow as the Elves, and though Gimli could hardly be considered an expert in the matter, it seemed to the Dwarf's keen observation that Nimfëalórien's hand was a trifle less swift at the quiver than Legolas' hand had ever been.  Gimli had grown accustomed to his lost friend's sharp eye and deadly aim, but even more so his unrivaled speed.  Legolas' shafts flew just instants before they were looked for, and they never failed to acquire satisfying targets.  Gimli had long suspected that the Elf could somehow see a second's glimpse into the future, thereby attaining the awareness necessary to act so quickly.

            Nevertheless, Nimfëalórien was hardly slow in any mortal's estimation.  His aim was not so sharp as Legolas', but he at least disabled nearly every enemy he shot at.  Gimli began to shift his weight on his feet, tightening and relaxing his grip on his axe.  The Orcs were drawing closer, and soon the time for bows and arrows would pass, and the time for blades and flesh would arrive.  Gimli much preferred the latter, for though the Elven shafts were good for thinning the approaching swarm, the cleaving strokes of his axe would provide him with greater personal satisfaction.

            A voice, barely audible to Gimli, shouted out again as before, and Nimfëalórien lowered his bow.  "We are to prepare to meet the assault," he told Gimli, slinging his bow over his shoulders.  He drew a long white blade from a sheath beneath his quiver.

            Gimli's ears registered the sharp sighs of dozens of Elven swords and long-knives leaving their casings around him.  His fingers sought a better hold on his own weapon, and he snarled under his breath.  Now the host of Dol Guldur would see what it was to incur the wrath of a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain.

            With the cessation of the barrage of arrows, the Orcs surged forward more violently than ever.  Their heavy tread trampled down the delicate mosses, tearing shrubs and flowers as they pounded forth, and their coarse voices polluted Lórien's sweet air.  Those who bore the heads of slain Elves had been among the first to fall, stuck through with multiple shafts, and so their dreadful ploy to dismay the remaining Elven warriors had been swiftly put asunder.  However, though the corpses of the enemy lay piled in great masses upon the ground, there seemed to be no diminishing of the force of the Enemy.  The Orcs rushed toward Gimli and Nimfëalórien, and all the others who lay hidden.

            Yet hidden they were not to remain.  Just as the Orcs drew close enough for Gimli to see the flinty glare of their eyes beneath their helms, there came a mighty shout from the trees, and the host of Lord Silmeros burst from within their concealed alcoves and fell upon the enemy warriors.  Nimfëalórien leaped forward, his long blade flashing in the light.  Gimli gave a shout and tore away his own disguising raiment, sending many flowers and leaves fluttering to the ground like wounded birds.  Brandishing his axe and giving voice to a loud Dwarven battle-cry, Gimli joined the Elven tide as they met the surge of the Enemy.

            Blade met blade with a resounding shriek.  Scores of the black horde fell, rent by blood-laved swords and knives inscribed with Elvish runes.  Orcs and parts of Orcs fell to the ground, and as they toppled, the newly-slain crashed into upright combatants.  Gimli sank his axe's double-bladed head into enemy flesh with relish, and hot black blood spurted onto the weapon, the ground, and Gimli himself.  He barked out a short burst of laughter, glad to be in the deep of action once more.  Orc-helms were cleaved and their owners slaughtered by the Dwarf's heavy stroke.  He ducked below many a return arc, only to bring his own weapon up in an underhanded sweep that caught his foes in the abdomen and split them to the ribs.  His beard was soon matted with black gore, but Gimli cared not.  He intended to slay as many of the foul creatures as he was able to, for it was for the sake of both Galadriel and Legolas that he fought.  

             So the Dwarf hacked a fissure in the Orc lines as they came.  The Elves nearby might have shaken their heads in wonder at their unusual ally's ferocity, but they were occupied with their own battles.  The ground was soon choked with dead enemies and their reeking spilt fluids.  In many places, the living fought while wading among the dead, only to add to the number of slain being trodden upon.  Rare was the Elf who fell to an enemy blade; the Firstborn were far superior to their mutilated foes in combat, for they possessed speed and skill that surpassed that of even the highest breed of Orc.  Yet there were some few who found themselves surrounded by insurmountable peril, and these were driven to the ground by sheer force of quantity.  Still, the losses of Dol Guldur's horde were much more grievous than those of Lórien's warriors.

            Gimli caught glimpses of besieged Elves, and these he attempted to aid, hewing Orcs ere they could bring their foul blades to bear on Galadriel's host.  He did not see Nimfëalórien for a long time, but the Dwarf put thoughts of his companion from his mind for the moment else he be distracted from his cause.  There came a time when he paused to take in the continuing battle around him.  It seemed to him that the Orcs were far fewer in number than they had been at the start; and Gimli then realized that he was far from the stone where Nimfëalórien had hidden and he himself had stood in waiting in camouflage.  The Sun was high in her journey across the Sky, and still the battle raged within the second ring.  Some of the Elves of the first ring who had survived the initial assault had pursued their foes through the forest, and now added their strength to that of the second ring.  

            Large gaps had appeared in the enemy's force, carved out by the blades and shafts of the Elven host.  The Orcs pressed on, mounting one offensive after another, tirelessly driving the warriors of Lórien farther into their realm.  Many in the second ring had turned and begun to pull down foes who had rushed past them in the early charge.  Gimli actively sought out his opponents, for now there was no great seething mass to fly into with blade aloft.  There were as yet large companies of the enemy, which bore down upon single Elves in their path and persistently moved toward the deeper places of the Golden Wood.

            Nimfëalórien appeared quite suddenly, dashing toward Gimli as though all the hosts of Mordor were behind him.  "'Ware, Gimli, attack is upon you!" the Elf cried out.

            The Dwarf did not hesitate.  He spun round and was barely fast enough to catch the length of an Uruk-hai blade on the haft of his axe.  The immense creature had approached with softer step than was normal, hoping to destroy the lone Dwarf who so puzzlingly fought on behalf of the Elves.  Upon detection, however, the Uruk-hai bellowed in rage and bore down on Gimli with a mighty blow, intending to drive the Dwarf to the ground and there slay him.  

            Gimli threw himself backwards, but even so he felt the air being cleaved where he had stood as the Uruk-hai's weapon sliced down.  He knocked the blackened blade aside with the hilt of his axe, and drove the blunt end into his opponent's hideously scowling face.  There was a sound of bones crunching, and the Uruk-hai shrieked in pain and wrath.  Its bawl was swiftly halted as Gimli's axe severed the moorings that held the creature's head to its shoulders.  The body collapsed at once, spewing fetid black liquid.

            "Many thanks to you, Master Elf," Gimli began to remark, turning once more to face Nimfëalórien.  His words died in his throat, however, as he saw the four snarling Orcs standing triumphantly over a still form crumpled on the ground.  The Elf lay unmoving, his face obscured by his russet hair and the dark saffron leaves beneath him.    

            In that instant, Gimli saw Legolas crushed beneath the hooves of black steeds.  He envisioned his dear friend lying trampled on the bank of the Anduin so many weeks past, injured and alone, deserted by those for whom he had sacrificed his own safety, and now in the cruel grasp of Orcs of Isengard, to be taken into the very maw of evil wherein resided a traitorous wizard.  Gimli thought of Legolas' last call, urging the Fellowship to flee; and of Nimfëalórien's warning, given in just enough time to save Gimli's life.  In truth, the young Elf's cry had likely drawn the enemies to assail him.  Two Elves to whom Gimli had become friend; one a royal son of Mirkwood, the other a brave son of Lórien.  They were so very different, yet so similar in the undiscriminating mind of a Dwarf.  And in the space of a single moment, the fates of the four creatures laughing over their young victim's body were sealed.

Every ounce of rage that Gimli possessed came rushing into his mind in a searing, torrid deluge.  It burned in his chest so furiously he thought his lungs might char.  For it was a wrath born not of greed or fear, nor of any other less noble cause; but instead, sorrow for lost brothers and comrades.  Those who claimed that Dwarves felt loss on behalf of naught but their treasures knew nothing of that folk, for the fury of a Dwarf avenging the slaying of a cherished friend was severe indeed.  And so, consumed with that very passion, Gimli raised his axe high, and with a bellow such as none he had ever before uttered, he charged toward the gathering of Orcs.

The creatures heard the sound that tore from Gimli's throat, and they whirled in amazement, forgetting their glee over the Elf that lay at their feet.  They snarled in unison, and raising their blades stepped forward to meet the Dwarf's attack.  Yet meet it they could not, for Gimli acted not out of rational consideration for strategy, but only out of a deep-rooted thirst for carnage.  Gimli plowed into the Orcs' weapons, taking many a glancing blow to his helm and mail, but he felt them not.  He drove the filthy creatures away from Nimfëalórien, hacking off the arm of one and cleaving a deep rent in the ribs of another.  His axe spun with a purpose of its own, knocking to the side the blackened weapons that sought his flesh; and ere long three of the four Orcs had been felled.  The last yet stood its ground, but with a hint of desperation to its actions, and as Gimli struck the fatal blow to this last creature he again shouted to the very heights of the trees.

Then it was done.  The Orcs lay dead in their own blood, and Gimli felt the soreness beginning to make itself known; for he had taken some few heavy strikes in the course of the frenzied battle.  He breathed hard, wiping black fluid from his brow, and immediately turned to seek out Nimfëalórien's collapsed form.  The Elf lay where he had fallen, with his face buried in the leaves and his fine earthen-hued locks fanned out around his head.  One slender hand was flung out, and his icor-smeared knife lay beyond his limp fingers.

Gimli dropped to his knees beside Nimfëalórien, keeping a wary eye open to possible threats; though the battle had progressed away from the second ring, with part of the enemy force retreating and part of it yet advancing into the third ring.  Gimli fancied he could hear the shouts of a fresh conflict flaring deeper into the forest.  He carefully sliced the straps that held Nimfëalórien's quiver and knife-sheath to his back, removing the now-cumbersome things, and then grasped the young Elf by the shoulders and turned him so that his pale face was shown to the day's light.  A dark russet stain marred the warm brown of Nimfëalórien's leathern over-tunic, testimony to a grievous wound slit across his chest.  The Orcs' assault had done harm to Nimfëalórien's bow as well; for the bow had been slung behind the Elf's back when he had taken to his blade, and it now lay silent and wrecked nearby.

"Ah, young Nimfëalórien," Gimli said mournfully, his rage spent, his grief only beginning.  But to his shock, the Elf's body shivered, and he opened his eyes.

"Not so young, good Dwarf," Nimfëalórien sighed with effort.  "But not practiced enough to ward off four…"  His voice faltered and failed, and he gave a slight cough.  Though a mundane sound, it was especially distressing to hear from the lips of an Elf, for those folk were rarely heard to utter such evidence of weakness.  

"I am not skilled in the ways of healers," Gimli said measuredly.  "But you know better than I how you fare.  Is the wound so dire as it appears?"

"Alas…I believe so," Nimfëalórien replied softly.

"Will you endure until the battle here has abated, and aid may be found?" Gimli asked.  "Perhaps if I staunch the flow of blood, and you remain still, the wound will work its will more slowly."

"Perhaps," the Elf breathed.  "I shall make the attempt."

"And so shall I," Gimli said.  He tore a strip of cloth from his under-tunic, for it was as yet the only fabric he wore that was not saturated with Orc-fluid.  With that he pressed firmly on as much of Nimfëalórien's injury as he could cover with his hands.  The Elf hissed in pain and flinched at the pressure, but he held the cloth to the gash as Gimli had, so that the Dwarf would be free to fend off any approaching enemies.  Then, Gimli retrieved Nimfëalórien's long white blade and replaced it in its sheath.  These he laid by the Elf's side, along with his bow and empty quiver.

"Now, be still and quiet, Master Elf," Gimli said, his voice raw but kind.  "I shall remain with you until help may be sought."

"Thank you," Nimfëalórien whispered.  He paused, then forced a few more words out.  "I was trying…to stay near.  Should you have needed aid…"

Gimli held up a finger, as though warning a small child.  "Crazy Elf, you're going to be quiet if I have to stifle you myself."

Nimfëalórien's wan features tightened into a small yielding smile, which then fell into a grimace.  He said nothing more.  His eyes fell shut once again.

            The forest around them had fallen into a near silence.  Unlike the peaceful calm of the morning, however, the stillness was thick and oppressive, and reeked of pain and hate and death.  The blanket of golden mallorn-leaves and green mosses that adorned the ground was crushed into the dirt, which had become a putrid sludge.  The oily blood of the black horde had become stirred into the earth and plants, and Gimli wondered if the Wood itself could feel and lament the poisons inflicted upon it.  Everywhere there were broken corpses, most hideous and dark, rent and leaking foul fluids.  Scattered among the dead of Dol Guldur were some few slain warriors of Lothlórien, and for these Gimli mourned.  The scent of violent bloodshed hung heavy in the clean air of the Golden Wood.

            Far away, it seemed, were the shouts and clamor of renewed battle.  The third defense ring had been assailed by the remaining Orcs, and the Elves of that ring, combined with those pursuers from the first and second, fought most viciously; for they were the last shield against the invaders.  Gimli sorely wished to rise and seek out the heart of the conflict, and so lend his axe to the aid of Galadriel's brave warriors in their defense.  But he dared not leave Nimfëalórien unguarded, lest some trailing Orc come upon the wounded Elf and slay him where he lay.  The Dwarf supposed he would have to wait until the battle waned, and then capture the attention of whatever Elves returned to the battlefield of the second ring in order to secure a healer's relief for Nimfëalórien.

            It seemed to Gimli that many hours passed, but really the time was slow, and it was not long ere another incredible vision stirred the Golden Wood's outer periphery.  Unlike the charge of the horde of Dol Guldur, however, the sight that now greeted the Dwarf's weary gaze was a welcome one indeed.   The rolling sound of hooves beating the earth echoed through the mallorns, and then they came into view: a throng of gleaming Elven horses riding for the heart of the Wood with all haste.  Gimli stared in shock at the swift, unsaddled steeds and their riders, who brandished naked swords and ready bows.  They were clothed in mail, these unknown warriors, and their raiment was of earthen-brown and leaf-green.  Hair both dark and golden streamed out behind in fluttering waves, as the riders thundered past the astonished Dwarf and his injured charge.  

            Behind the mounted riders came scores of Elves on foot, running with speed to nearly match that of the horses.  Their footfalls were a mere whisper upon the abused soil, and some directed surprised glances at Gimli as they passed, but none halted their charge.  Their blades and bows, too, were outstretched and made keen for battle.  Truly they were a force resolved, and that they were to join the defense of Lórien was a salvation that could not have been foreseen.  Gimli cheered them silently, for he believed he recognized their manner of dress.  They were surely Legolas' folk, the people of Mirkwood, come to wage war on behalf of their southern relations.   

            With the warriors on foot there came another, smaller assemblage of riders.  In their midst and mounted upon a white steed there was an Elf-lord of singular splendor.  His breast was bright with mail and sash, the latter being of lush green as befitted the Woodland Realm.  A rich cloak of like hue flowed from his shoulders, and Gimli noted the ornate gold embroidery set in the cloth.  No less golden was the Elf's hair, which fell in thick folds to the middle of his back.  A long blade gleamed in his hand, and from his lips came thunderous commands in his own tongue.  To his right rode a warrior who bore an unfurled standard of green and white and gold; the banner of the forest kingdom, which confirmed Gimli's guess.

            Nimfëalórien blinked dazedly, coming to his senses for a moment.  He followed Gimli's astounded gaze.  "It is the Elvenking of Mirkwood!" the young Elf exclaimed softly, gripping Gimli's arm with a little strength.  "Our northern cousins come to our aid!"

            Gimli hushed Nimfëalórien, scarcely able to tear his eyes from the newly-arrived king.  "Save your strength, Master Elf, until that wound can be attended to."

            "That is no matter now," came the labored reply.  "Poisoned, Gimli…the blade was poisoned, and now it is in my blood…"

            Gimli jerked his gaze down to the young Elf's face, which was worrisomely dim with pallor.  Nimfëalórien's breathing was rapid and thready, and his gray eyes appeared filmy.  The Dwarf swore mightily into his matted beard, raking the Elf's still-hidden wound with an angry look.  "The beasts!" he exclaimed.  "Well, I had hoped to keep you still and further unharmed, Nimfëalórien, until the victory was declared.  But there is no time for such a tarry now.  You must see a healer."

            Nimfëalórien's voice trembled, both with pain and with fear.  To an Elf, who was not meant to ever taste death, the endless sleep was a matter of terror.  "Where shall we acquire one, Master Dwarf?" he asked.

            "From my pocket if needs be," Gimli answered.  "Save your strength, Nimfëalórien, and leave the worry to me.  Mark me! you shall not die today."

            There was no answer.  Nimfëalórien had sunk once more into the frightening stillness of the gravely wounded, eyes half-closed with the onset of coma.  Gimli cursed again, but silently and to himself.  The Orcs had laced their blades with some foul venom or another, so as to ensure that those they felled would die given time.  Nimfëalórien's plight was more dire than either had guessed.  

            The force from Mirkwood had passed, and a roar had gone up from within the Wood; the battle had been joined.  Gimli smiled grimly as he thought of the enemies' shock upon seeing a fresh wave of mounted opponents bearing down on them.  Also the image of the Elvenking remained in his mind; Legolas' father, and a formidable lord indeed.  Gimli remembered his own father's tales of the stern Elvenking of the forest realm, who had imprisoned Glóin and his companions in the deepest dungeons for traipsing about Mirkwood in search of food for their starving bellies.  Thorin Oakenshield had been their leader in the quest to recover the hoard of Smaug the dragon in Erebor; whereafter they had re-established the Kingdom under the Mountain, the realm of Gimli's folk.  

Glóin's words concerning Thranduil the king of Mirkwood were varyingly appreciative and scathing.  The Dwarf-lord was still miffed at the Elf-lord's severe treatment of himself and the others of Thorin and Company.  However, the king had not been unkind to his prisoners, furnishing them with food and drink aplenty during their captivity.  But then again, Thranduil had been among the most stubborn foes when he and his allies among Men had laid siege to Erebor, demanding a share of Smaug's treasure stored within.  So Gimli had a somewhat confused opinion of Thranduil, especially because his dear friend Legolas was the son of that very same king.  Gimli did not think it possible that such a cheery personage as Legolas could have come of a tyrannical parentage.  He supposed he would have to make his own judgments if he happened to meet the Elvenking himself.

            Further musings, however, would have to be delayed.  Nimfëalórien had not the strength to walk, and Gimli doubted he could carry the Elf's long, wilted frame all the way to Caras Galadhon, even if he could find his way back there.  Also, there were still a great many Orcs in the Wood, and Gimli hesitated to bring his vulnerable friend into the thick of danger.  Therefore, the Dwarf made a bitter-tasting decision.  He squeezed Nimfëalórien's shoulder to get the Elf's attention, and said, "Nimfëalórien, I must go for help.  I do not wish to leave you here, but there is little other option available.  I shall disguise you as best I can, but you must remain as still and silent as possible so that you do not attract the attention of passing enemies."

            Nimfëalórien nodded slightly, his eyes remaining closed.  His lips moved as if to speak, but no sound emerged.  His time was undeniably growing short.

            Gimli promptly retrieved the mantle of leaves and flowers that had been used to hide him from view at the start of the battle.  It was largely intact, having been sheltered from much trodding by the stones it had been cast alongside of.  This Gimli placed atop Nimfëalórien's prone form, being sure that the young Elf could breathe easily through the gaps in the leaves.  Then, for added security, the Dwarf scattered fallen leaves from the surrounding earth atop the covering, so blending the slight raise in the terrain with the other knolls in the area.  

            "I shall return as quickly as I can," Gimli whispered to Nimfëalórien, and without waiting for reply, he took up his axe and headed toward the continuing battle in the third ring of Lothlórien's defense.  It had occurred to him that perhaps one of the mounted warriors of Mirkwood might be persuaded to turn back and retrieve a wounded Elf, and then bear him swiftly to a healer.  Certainly it was more feasible than any plan involving reliance on Gimli's strength alone. 

            The din of combat had lessened considerably since the initial assault of Mirkwood's warriors.  The remaining Orcs had been all but crushed between the steady resistance of Lórien's forces and the fierce onslaught of Thranduil's modest host.  A good portion of the enemy had escaped earlier in the day, after the disastrous attack on the second ring of the Golden Wood's defenders.  All enemies who had dared to further their foray into Lothlórien, however, were destroyed.  Those Orcs who yet remained standing were attempting belated retreat, but they were cut down in their flight by vengeful Elven blades.  Not one attained the open forest in which to flee.

            Gimli ran as hastily as he could, following the strewn corpses of slain Orcs.  His axe he held clutched to his chest, ready to swing out into combat if necessary.  His breath came hard, for he was weary with battle and concern for Nimfëalórien.  Nevertheless Gimli ran on, seeking the mounted forerunners of Mirkwood's force.  He half-thought, half-panted a prayer that the Elves would not drop him from afar with a pale arrow, thinking him to be an enemy.

            The bodies of dead Orcs grew more numerous as Gimli neared the third ring's original position.  These he avoided easily, for their black husks rose like cancerous growths from the earth.  But he nearly stumbled over the still form of a slain Elf; one of Lórien's own, by the gray and brown of his rent clothing.  The Elf's legs were buried beneath a heap of Orc corpses, and his visage was so besmeared with dirt and black blood that he all but disappeared into the gruesome scene around him.  Gimli paused for but a moment, long enough to reach down and close the unseeing eyes of the warrior.  Somehow, it seemed inappropriate to Gimli that any of the Firstborn should be left dead with eyes open, as though in mockery of their peculiar waking-sleep.

            A sharp voice interrupted the Dwarf's thoughts.  Gimli stiffened, and found the hardened tip of an arrow aimed directly between his eyes.  The Elf he faced was tall and dark-haired, and wore the raiment and mail of the warriors of Mirkwood.  Gimli cast a glance about, and saw five others of the same ilk emerging from their concealment, bows nocked and drawn.  Gimli wondered if perhaps they had not been sent for this very purpose; he remembered the glances of the Elves as they darted past.  Mayhap one of their lords had commanded them to turn back and seize the lone Dwarf they had seen in the course of their rush.  They quickly surrounded their quarry.  

The Elf directly before Gimli stood motionless, the shaft at his bow unwavering.  His glare bored through Gimli's grim look.  He spoke rapid words in his own tongue, which of course Gimli did not understand.

            "I am not an enemy," Gimli said, with remarkable constraint considering the urgency of his task.  "I am here with the Lady Galadriel's leave, for I seek a means of rescue for Legolas, the son of your king."  He knew not if the Elves would understand his speech, but surely the names of the Lady of Lórien and the prince of Mirkwood would capture their attention.            

The first Elf's brow furrowed.  He looked to one of his fellows and said something more in his own language.  The warrior placed to Gimli's left replied in the same fashion, then turned his attention back to the Dwarf.  "I alone here speak the tongue of Men," the second Elf said.  "I have imparted your words to the others, but we are still unsure of your purpose."

"I have not time sufficient to convince you fully," Gimli answered sharply, spurred by growing anxiety.  The longer he tarried with these suspicious folk, the more likely it was that Nimfëalórien would slip beyond the reach of even Elvish healers' abilities.  "I was seeking your folk when you accosted me, for I had a young wounded Elf of Lórien in my keeping, and he burns with Orc poison.  I hoped to find a mounted warrior to bear my friend to a healer."  Gimli drew himself up, disregarding the barbs yet aimed at him.  "If you slay me now without at least discovering his location, his death will be upon your hands, for his time grows short," the Dwarf added heatedly.

The Elf who spoke Westron related Gimli's dialogue, evoking pained grimaces from all and yet-skeptical glances from some.  The first Elf, evidently the leader, hesitated, then slowly lowered his bow.  The arrow he kept notched, however.  He spoke shortly to one of his subordinates, who turned and dashed into the Wood, seeming to fly over the earth rather than run upon it.  The leader then nodded to Gimli and continued in his indecipherable speech.

"Thalion has sent Dín Duilin to bring one of our folk with a steed to carry the wounded Elf you speak of," said the interpreting Elf to Gimli's left side.  He had also relaxed his stance, as had the others with him.  "But beware of treachery, Dwarf, for we already do not take kindly to your ilk, and if you have spoken falsely we shall slay you without pause."

"If Nimfëalórien yet lives after all this delay, then you may certainly ask him whether he considers me a friend," Gimli said stiffly.  He had not intended to speak sharply to any of Legolas' kin, but their hostility grated on his nerves, which were frayed as it was.  The Dwarf turned and marched back the way he had come, followed closely by the five Wood-elves.  They stepped lightly, as did all their folk, and Gimli restrained the impulse to glance behind to see whether they had disappeared; they were aloof and distrustful, yes, but their concern for a fallen Elfling was genuine.  Too, they were obligated to remain with Gimli until they knew for certain whether he was an ally or a deceptive foe.  Gimli cared not what they thought of him, so long as they took in hand Nimfëalórien's plight and bore him to a healer. 

"How shall your mount find where we have gone?" Gimli asked at one point.  He had not realized how far he had gone in his haste; and though his stride was swift now, he could not run as quickly he had before, and the going was long.  

"We are leaving signs that we would otherwise conceal," the Elf who knew the Common Speech answered.  "The Elves of Mirkwood are skilled in reading pathways."

Gimli absorbed that information, keeping a sharp glance about so that he did not miss the rock outcropping that Nimfëalórien had hidden behind.  It was the landmark by which he had determined to remember where the young Elf lay concealed.  Some minutes passed by ere the squat stone came into view.  Gimli could not restrain his worry any longer, for he feared above all that he would find Nimfëalórien lifeless and cold.  Unheeding of the armed Elves to the rear, he broke into a sprint, and within moments was kneeling beside a slightly raised hillock among the scattered corpses of the black horde.  

"Nimfëalórien?" Gimli said softly, pulling the mantle of leaves away from the young Elf's face and chest.  He barely heard the Wood-elves' murmurs of dismay; standing all around, they were both saddened by the ashen face of their wounded kin and surprised that Gimli had been speaking truthfully.  The Dwarf, for his part, ignored them.  "Nimfëalórien, I have found your northern kinfolk.  Wake up and be civil to them, ere they slay me for a liar!"  This last was spoken in jest, but Gimli hoped to jar Nimfëalórien from his daze with the sarcasm.

To his delight, Nimfëalórien stirred slightly.  He drew in a breath, gray eyes fluttering.  "The dead are not obliged…to be civil…friend Gimli," he sighed with much effort.

"You are not dead," Gimli said, at once glad and distressed for the Elf's words.  "Nor shall you be, not today.  A mounted warrior comes hither, to carry you to a healer!"

One of the Elves of Mirkwood had knelt by Nimfëalórien's side.  He spoke softly to the young Elf in their tongue, his keen eyes taking in Nimfëalórien's state.  He looked exceedingly troubled.  The interpreting Elf stood to Gimli's right, and said, "This poison is quite strong, Dwarf.  Your haste may or may not have been in vain; we cannot say for certain."

Gimli glared at him.  "Speak not of such things, Elf.  I shall not concede defeat while Nimfëalórien yet breathes, for he is of a strong constitution."  He directed his next words down to his prone friend.  "Also, no corpse that I have seen can appreciate the beauty and splendor of the Glittering Caves.  As I recall, crazy Elf, you and I have a planned engagement there."

Nimfëalórien did not answer, for the poison in his blood had sapped his strength; indeed, it had required all of his remaining energy to make reply to Gimli's anxious greeting.  There was, however, the faintest shade of a smile upon the Elf's waxen features.  His breathing was no longer rapid and shallow, but had instead slackened to slow, difficultly-drawn sighs.  Gimli worried that Nimfëalórien would slip into a deep sleep from which he could not be awakened, and thence cease to draw breath at all.  "Do not sleep, Nimfëalórien!" the Dwarf commanded, shaking the young warrior firmly.  "You must not sleep!"  There was no answer.

At that moment, the sound of hoof beats danced through the forest and lifted Gimli's hopes.  A gray-dappled steed rode up in haste, and halted a short distance from Gimli and the assembled Elves.  A warrior clad in raiment similar to that of Gimli's accosters leaped agilely from the horse's bare back.  Though it was without bit or bridle, the beast remained still; such was the way with Elven-horses, for they obeyed their masters without need of such trappings as Men employed.  After trading brief speech with the Wood-elves gathered round Nimfëalórien, the dark-haired rider turned to Gimli.  "Hail, Master Gimli," he said in Westron.  "I have heard much of you in my king's court.  But further words will wait, for I am told that you possess a wounded Elf in your care, and wish him to be borne to safety."

"That is true, Master Elf," Gimli said.  "His name is Nimfëalórien, and he has fought bravely today in the Lady's service."

"Then it is well that he has found a caretaker in yourself, Master Dwarf.  I would that every one of Lady Galadriel's warriors were so fortunate," the Elf remarked soberly.  With those words, he stepped past Gimli and the other Elves, to kneel beside Nimfëalórien's unmoving shape.  Then, having checked the Elfling's breathing, the rider slid his strong arms beneath his charge's insensate form and lifted him, bearing Nimfëalórien to the waiting mount nearby.  The horse stood stock-still as its master carefully placed the young Elf astride, then himself leaped up behind and wrapped Nimfëalórien in a protective embrace.  

"The victory is ours, but the battle is not yet over," the rider told Gimli and the collection of Wood-elves.  "Go, rejoin your lords.  I shall take Nimfëalórien to Caras Galadhon at once.  The healers there are assembled and prepared, for some of the wounded are already being taken to shelter by others of my contingent."  He spoke at length to the Elves then, in their tongue, and when he had finished he looked back to Gimli.  "Thranduil the king shall hear of your valor and distress on behalf of this young one," the mounted Elf said gravely.  "Of that you may be certain, Master Gimli."

            "Ride swiftly, Master Elf," Gimli replied.  

            The rider nodded, then turned his steed about and departed at a swift pace for the heart of the Golden Wood.  He disappeared among the trees, and the sound of the horse's hooves against the earth trailed after him.  Gimli watched them fade from view, then turned to the sober Elves behind him.  "I am off to enter the fracas once more, good Elves," he told them curtly.  He was slightly more inclined to be gracious now that Nimfëalórien was cared for, and so referred to the warriors as "good Elves," though he still thought them to be antagonistic and prejudiced.

            The Elf who spoke Westron glanced at his fellows, then stepped forward.  "I am called Forngíliath, Master Gimli.  On behalf of my companions, I must respectfully ask your pardon, for I fear that in our doubt we have offended you."

            "You would do well to learn something of truce from your prince, Forngíliath of Mirkwood," Gimli said.  "But if pardon you sincerely seek, then pardon you are granted."

            Forngíliath spoke softly with his companions.  One, the leader who had first confronted Gimli—Thalion by name, if memory yet served—replied.  The interpreter faced the Dwarf and declared, "Then we shall tarry here no further.  We go to join our king on the battlefield."

            "Be sure to give him the gratitude of Lothlórien for his well-timed aid," Gimli said.  

            Forngiliath inclined his head.  "We shall, although I daresay the Lord and Lady might deliver such appreciation better than I or my fellows."  Then, with an aside to his superior, the Elf bowed slightly to Gimli.  "Well met, Elf-friend.  May your axe never fail to find its objectives."

            "And may your blades never shatter or grow weary," Gimli responded properly.  "Now let us off, for I am keen to return to my Lady's service!"

            Thalion the leader, having received a reiteration of the Dwarf's words, spoke to his subordinates, and as one they sprang away, sprinting with fleet foot toward the now-quieted battlegrounds deeper within the Wood.  Gimli let them go, knowing he surely could not keep pace with them, and he set forth at his own hurried stride.  He was eager to learn of the state of the defenders of Lórien.  Too, he wished to lend his aid in bringing the battle to conclusion; for only then would he return to the City and seek report of Nimfëalórien's fate.

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            End of Chapter Fourteen.  Wahoo—Gimli rocks!

**Note: Most of Gimli's speech to Nimfëalórien about the Glittering Caves was plucked straight from "The Two Towers," when the Dwarf was talking Legolas into visiting those very caverns with him after the whole Ring business was over with.  I didn't note the quotes with italics as promised, because the excerpts were sprinkled with slight modifications so that they fit my story.  However, the props for the speech's wonderful content go straight to Master Tolkien, no doubt about it.**

            Also, if anyone's curious as to why Lórien was attacked so quickly after the Renewed Fellowship left…I'm just following the Tale of Years given in Appendix B at the end of "The Return of the King."  It gives March 11th as the date of the first assault on Lórien.  By my figuring, the RF departed Lórien on March 10th.  Granted, the War of the Ring is progressing much more slowly in my story than it did in the LOTR trilogy, but some things (such as the attacks on Lórien) are going to remain where they were in the original chronology, purely for the sake of having some corresponding points from which to springboard my completely messed-up A/U plotline.  I hope that clears up any questions about plot development, etc.

**Name notes: **

1) _Nimfëalórien (Elf of Lórien, young warrior who fought in the first assault against Lórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "white spirit of Lórien."  Galadriel gave him the moniker "Fëaneth" ("young spirit"), saying that he was yet too young to carry such a forceful name._

2) _Silmeros (Elf of Lórien, commander of the second ring of Lórien's defense force) = this name is a Quenya and Sindarin derivative that means "starlight-foam."_

3) _Thalion (Elf of Mirkwood, leader of the group of Elves dispatched to accost Gimli near the end of the first assault on Lórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "steadfast" or "strong." _

4) _Dín Duilin (Elf of Mirkwood, accompanied Thalion to accost Gimli) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "silent river-song." _

5)_ Forngíliath (Elf of Mirkwood, accompanied Thalion to accost Gimli; interpreter for the Elves) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "star-host of the north."  _

            Please review!


	15. The Afterward

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Fifteen**

**Summary: If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with a …, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: "The Languages of Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  **

**Replies to reviews:**

Treehugger: Wow, what a gush!  Thank you SO much for all the excitement in your review; it leaked through my computer screen and sent me rolling!  I'm glad you liked Chapter 14; I was somewhat worried about how the battle in Lórien would be received by the readership.  Whew!  And as for my Nimfëalórien, well…keep reading!  Also, your comment about not crying so much since JastaElf…oh, my, that is a HUGE compliment…I loved "Leaf and Branch!"  Thanks, thanks, thanks!!  :)

kungfuqueen: Welcome to my li'l fandom!  I'm glad you're enjoying TWW, and thank you so much for the reviews.  A question, though: you mentioned Denethor in your review of Chapter 1…but I never mentioned him in that chapter, or anywhere else (yet).  What were you referring to?  Anyhoo, thanks muchly, and stick around!  Things are gonna get a whole lot cooler before I'm done!  

Architeuthis: Hey, welcome!  I'm on your fave list?  Woohoo!  Thanks for the review, friend!  And yeah, the formatting was screwed up…I have no idea why.  I hope my re-uploading fixed it.  Thanks again!  :)

Smidge-o-Midge: Hey, Midge, how are ya?  I see you managed to get onto the site finally…yay for FF.net's software upgrades!  Glad you're enjoying!  :)

And now, on with the tale…

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            Lothlórien had withstood the massive** assault set forth from Dol Guldur, but not without grievous cost.  The last Orc was felled as twilight descended upon the world, and in the waning light of Anor, malicious fires kindled by the black horde were made apparent.  Many a swift-footed Elf was sent to quench the flames ere they could spread and consume more of the forest.  Already some of the great mallorns that had stood watch at the northern edge of the realm were blackened and scorched beyond salvage.  The broken husks of the slain lay thick upon the ground, the flow of liquids from their severed flesh slowed but not altogether ended; black poison and red sorrow seeped into the forest's foundations, and mournful was the song of the trees that eve.  **

Much harm had been done to the Golden Wood itself, for the creatures of Shadow had delighted in senselessly hacking and rending the young trees and shrubs in their path.  Damage there was, too, from the abrasion of battle itself: injured mallorns bled from broad gashes and deep piercings, and many were yet speared with arrows; countless flowers and small plants drowned in the sludge that had become their soil due to poisonous hemorrhaging from the enemy dead; the once-laughing brooks and small waterways that fed Lórien's clear pools had been choked almost to fatality with kicked-up dirt and gore and fallen combatants.

            Gimli knew little of these things as he trudged back to Caras Galadhon in the company of the victorious yet exhausted Elvish host.  There was little speech between the warriors, for all were weary and grieved.  The Elves of Mirkwood walked with lighter step than did those of Lórien, however, and what quiet words they did exchange were darkly cheerful.  Greenwood the Great had long been oppressed by encroaching Shadow, and its people were far more accustomed to such dreadful conflicts.  Therefore, though they lamented the harm that had come to Lothlórien, they were not bowed with their grief as were some of the Golden Wood's younger warriors, who had known naught but peace and beauty all their lives—which had been long upon the earth in the reckoning of Men, if not of Elves.  Thranduil's folk were more inclined to delight in the slaying of enemies, instead of bemoaning that which could not be prevented or undone.  

Most of the mounted warriors had vanished, for after the initial charge of Mirkwood's forces they had set to the task of collecting the severely wounded and conveying them to the healers at Caras Galadhon.  The City remained untouched by enemy footfalls; indeed, the horde had not gotten much beyond the third ring of defense, which was far from sight of the lights of Galadriel's abode.  As the returning Elven hosts neared the City, they began to breathe more deeply and with more ease, for the unscathed air of Lórien's heartland was as a balm to their spirits.  Even Gimli sensed the change, though he was not attuned to the forest as were those around him.  His aches seemed to diminish, and a breath of cool air swept over his warm brow.    

Night was coming rapidly, and the glistening lamps and vines of the City suspended high above were a welcome vision in the darkening heights of the great trees.  Gimli was again amazed by the splendor of the place; it was as though a great many pearls had been set to blaze and then placed aloft, there to illumine the golden crowns of the mallorns.  There were sighs of relief from the lips of Lórien's own, and Thranduil's host gazed in wonderment, for there was not one among them who had ever before seen Caras Galadhon.  Only their king had journeyed to the Golden Wood with any frequency, and even he had not visited that land in many years.

Gimli had not glimpsed Thranduil after the fleeting charge of Mirkwood's host.  The herald who had borne the Woodland Realm's banner had appeared alongside Silmeros and the other lords of Lórien to at last declare the victory and to invite the warriors to return to Caras Galadhon for the night, but of the Elvenking there was no sign.  Gimli wondered, not for the first time that day, why Thranduil had chosen to accompany his warriors into the fray.  Normally kings and lords sent their subordinates out into battle, for the loss of a ruler would be a heavy blow to any land already besieged.  But Mirkwood's king had come himself to the battlefield, proudly flying his colors, as though he wanted to be sure that the enemy knew exactly who was to be the instrument of their destruction.  As one who did not take kindly to deception or cowardice, Gimli appreciated that stance; yet he doubted the wisdom of such a display, for Mirkwood could not surely recover easily from the loss of her king, particularly so soon after Legolas' capture and Lelemir's departure. 

            Dwarves were not normally concerned with minor filthiness, but Gimli wished above all to plunge both himself and his clothing into a pool somewhere, for the grime of battle and the stench of dead Orcs clung to him, and they vexed his shredded forbearance.  He could not run a single finger through the length of his beard, so matted it was with greasy enemy viscera.  His chain-mail shirt and protective leathers were encrusted with the stuff, and also with mud and bits of grass.  Being a Dwarf, he was of sturdier make than most other speaking peoples of Middle-earth, but he could feel bruises forming all over.  His muscles were stiff and unwilling to loosen.  Hunger and thirst gnawed at his innards.  In a short telling, Gimli felt absolutely wretched.  But he was somewhat heartened by the grim satisfaction he detected in the voices of a nearby party of Mirkwood Elves.  Their language was strange, but they were clearly pleased with the conclusion of the day's battle.  Truth be told, Gimli shared their opinion.  Hundreds of Orcs had been slain during the course of the conflict.  Their advance upon Lothlórien had been halted.  Fatalities among the warriors of Lórien—and Mirkwood—had been relatively few.  

            That deliberation brought on a fresh wave of concern for Nimfëalórien.  Gimli had put his anxiety aside after seeing the Mirkwood rider bear the young Elf away, but now that the clash was ended, Gimli sorely desired to know of his friend's fate.  He decided to seek out the healers and ask whether Nimfëalórien yet lived, and in what state.   Gimli sighed to himself, grimacing as he gingerly shifted his black-smirched axe from one shoulder to the other.  Bathing and rest would have to be postponed. 

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            Well within the borders of Caras Galadhon, beneath the sheltering boughs of thick-leaved mallorn trees, there had been assembled a number of spacious white pavilions.  Here the wounded were brought for mending, in order that they might not be compelled to climb the many stairs to the City above to receive what ministrations were needed.  Gray-robed healers walked softly among the injured, tending to the hurts with all the skill garnered over centuries of instruction and training.  The air was quiet, save for the scattered moans and gasps of victims.  Many an Elf was dismissed from the pavilions with wounds swathed in white linen, and lingering in the surrounding shadows were concerned kindred ready to assist their relatives to their dwellings.  The healers had wisely requested that no more than one family member remain for that purpose, lest the area become too crowded for convenience.

            Gimli had gathered the location of the healers' pavilions from a rather surly Elf, and he had come immediately to see about Nimfëalórien's fate.  The Dwarf wondered if any of Nimfëalórien's relations were present as he drifted closer to the white pavilions.  There were six of them, set a moderate distance from one another; hung round each was a series of bright coiled lamps, whose luminance brought silvery daylight to the night-dimmed Wood.  In various places were clustered anxious relatives hovering as close as they were permitted to their injured kin.  Upon arriving in the large clearing, Gimli had taken a swift glance about but had not seen Nimfëalórien.  Closer scrutiny did not reveal the young Elf, either.  Gimli quelled his abrupt dread and beckoned to one of the many healers, a stately Elf lady with hair the color of rich, dark ale.  "Pardon my imposition, my lady, but I am looking for an Elf named Nimfëalórien.  Do you know where he is?"

            To Gimli's consternation, the Elven healer did not speak Westron, as she merely stared uncomprehendingly.  "Nimfëalórien?" she repeated with a raised eyebrow.  "Im lona úgolodh Edhelneth hi essë."

            "I do not understand you, Lady Healer," Gimli said, somewhat frustrated.  "I am looking for a young Elf named Nimfëalórien.  He was poisoned today in the battle, and I wish to know how he fares."

            The healer shook her head, her fair face wrought with faint sadness, for she plainly did not comprehend his words any more than he did hers.  Gimli glanced about, hoping to secure the notice of a sympathetic Elf who spoke at least some of the Common Speech.  He saw many surprised faces, and a few coldly disgusted ones, but none that registered discernment of his language.

            A soft female voice floated over Gimli's left shoulder, startling the Dwarf and catching the healer's attention.  A weary but beautiful Elf lady stood behind Gimli, her gray eyes bright with unshed tears.  She was clad in robes of blue and white, and wore no ornamentation about her neck or waist.  "Healer Tasáriel said that she does not know of any Elf named Nimfëalórien," the lady explained softly in strongly accented Westron.  Her words came somewhat hesitantly, for she did not often have cause to use the Common Tongue, and Gimli digested her speech for a long moment before discerning her meaning.

            "Thank you, my lady," Gimli said in surprise.  He did not recognize the Elf lady, and he was certain that if he had met her before he would remember doing so; thus, he did not quite understand why she was condescending to speak to what must seem to her fair eyes a reeking, filthy Dwarf.  He supposed she was waiting for word of one of her own kin wounded in the course of the day's clash.

            The unfamiliar Elf lady looked to Tasáriel  and spoke a few smooth words in her own tongue.  The dark-haired healer bowed slightly and moved away, returning to her tasks.  The lady then slid her gaze back to regard Gimli.  "You seek Nimfëalórien," she said, again in tentative Westron.  "None here call him by that name save yourself, good Dwarf."

Gimli was greatly surprised by her courtesy.  "Pray tell, fair lady, who are you, and do you know how Nimfëalórien fares?" he asked her.

            A radiant smile shone through her brimming tears.  "I am the mother of the one you call Nimfëalórien," she said softly.  "And my son lives because of your aid, Master Gimli."

            Gimli placed the head of his axe upon the soft ground and bowed deeply despite his body's protests.  He did not attempt to hide the broad smile that broke across his grime-smeared face.  "I am truly honored to meet you, my lady, and the tidings you have given bring great joy to my heart.  But how have you come by knowledge of me?  Surely my young friend did not speak in his state."

            "Oh, but he did, against all healers' requests," the lady replied.  Though her smile remained undimmed, glossy tears yet trailed down her pale face, which was framed with earthy-auburn tresses the exact hue of Nimfëalórien's own.  The more she spoke of the Common, the more confident she became in it, as though slowly remembering a skill long-ignored.  "My son made certain that all assembled knew who was responsible for summoning the mounted rider of Mirkwood to bear him hither," she continued.  Her gaze grew more solemn as she regarded Gimli.  "The household of Lómeldarion and the lady Tinlórewen is deeply in your debt, Master Gimli.  Mayhap we may be granted the opportunity to repay your goodwill in kind."

            "I wished only to save the life of a friend, Lady Tinlórewen ," Gimli said unpretentiously; in truth, he was overcome with humility at the Elf lady's tearful gratitude.  "But you have made me curious; you said before that none here call your son by the name he gave to me, which was Nimfëalórien.  By what other name is he known?"

            "Nimfëalórien is his given name," Tinlórewen said fondly.  "But when he was presented to the Lord and Lady, Galadriel said that he was far too young yet to bear such a forceful name, for in the tongue of the Sindar it means 'white spirit of Lórien.'  The Lady then bestowed upon my son the name of _Fëaneth, which means 'young spirit,' and that is how he has been hailed since then."_

            Gimli shook his head and smiled knowingly.  "I perceived that he was young soon after meeting him," he remarked.  "But if I am permitted to give thought of the matter, I daresay your Fëaneth has earned his proper name."

            "Perhaps, Master Gimli," Lady Tinlórewen  said thoughtfully.  "Perhaps.  I will speak with his father Lómeldarion concerning it."  She gave the Dwarf an appraising look, then laughed slightly to herself.  "Ah, my dear mother would be shocked to see me here conversing with you," she said warmly, and her tears dried on her cheeks even as she spoke.  "I come from a line of Elves devoted to the highest ideals of the Eldar, Master Dwarf, and my kin have never been fond of yours.  But you have done much to amend my thinking in this matter."

            Gimli bowed to her.  "Again, I am honored by your words, Lady Tinlórewen .  And now, if I may, I should very much like to see my friend and perhaps speak to him."

            "Of course.  I will ask Tasáriel  to take you to him," Tinlórewen  replied.  Her expression grew grave then, and she bowed slightly, causing her long russet tresses to slip over her shoulders.  Straightening, she declared, "As a mother of children, and as a daughter of the House of Angrod son of Finarfin, I thank you once more for the kindness and care you have shown to my son, Master Gimli.  Be assured, they shall not be forgotten."

            "And as a Dwarf of the Kingdom under the Mountain, and a son of Glóin of Erebor, I extend what great pleasure is mine at the service I was able to give to you and your son, whom I consider a friend," Gimli replied.  "May stars shine on the hour of our meeting, fair lady."  This last phrase he spoke quite cordially, for he had learned some of the civilities of Elves from Legolas during their conversations beneath the mallorns throughout their first stay in Lórien, before the night of ruin on the bank of the Great River.

            Tinlórewen  looked at him in renewed wonder, then murmured, "Elen síla lumenn' omentielvo," thereby lending the Ancient Tongue to Gimli's courteous parting words.  With that, the lady called out to Tasáriel the healer, and bade her lead Gimli to where Nimfëalórien lay.  Tinlórewen  then departed, for as Gimli had learned from his churlish informant, the healers at the pavilions would permit only one alone at a time to visit the wounded. 

            Gimli followed Tasáriel  to a pavilion set slightly apart from the others.  A great many Elves rested upon low couches of soft gray cloth; these were too gravely wounded to be sent immediately to their homes.  Their injuries were bound with white linen, and though their eyes were open, Gimli knew that they were wandering the dreams of their waking-sleep.  He wondered how many had been subjected to poison as well as the physical rending of their fair flesh.  The Dwarf winced at the severity of some of the wounds, for Elves were not nearly so solidly built as were Gimli's folk.  Legolas had spoken of the swift healing capabilities of the Firstborn, however, which was perhaps adequate compensation.

            The dark-haired healer led Gimli to a couch set against the far side of the pavilion, and upon it lay Nimfëalórien covered with a light mantle of gray.  The young Elf's bared chest rose and fell evenly beneath the linen swathed round his wound.  His features were drawn with weariness, but he was no longer ashen with the pain of blade-venom.  His pale silver eyes were half-lidded in the peculiar Elvish slumber.

            Gimli thanked Tasáriel , who nodded once and took her leave.  The Dwarf then quietly lowered himself to the flooring by his friend's side, hesitant to disturb the other's rest.  He smiled despite his acute awareness of the aches in his bones.  Nimfëalórien looked even younger than he had before, with his expression relaxed in the oblivion of Elven sleep.  Lady Tinlórewen 's revelation of her son's mild duplicity was more amusing than offensive to Gimli, for he well recalled his own youthful impatience with elders who insisted upon treating him as a mere youngling.  "Fëaneth, indeed," he muttered.  

            "You have been speaking with my mother, I see," Nimfëalórien remarked softly, suddenly blinking to full wakefulness.

            Gimli shook his head.  "Ah, Master Elf, I did not intend to wake you," he stated ruefully.  "How do you fare now?"

            Nimfëalórien considered for a moment, then replied with a pinched smile, "I am now required to be civil, if that can be considered a blessing."  His mirth faded, and he sighed wearily.  "If the healers had been but a few minutes later to my aid, the poison in my veins would have been my death," the young Elf said pensively.

            "Think not on such things," Gimli said reprovingly.  "You shall live, and much longer than I would even in the best of my health.  As to your question, yes, I had the pleasure of speaking with your lovely mother."

            "I ought to have told you my right name," Nimfëalórien murmured.  "Forgive me.  I must appear quite foolish."

            "To be young is not inevitably to be foolish, Nimfëalórien, and I shall continue to make use of the name you gave to me unless I am expressly forbidden to do so," Gimli stated.  He could see that even their short exchange had tired the Elf; further repartee would have to be staved off until Nimfëalórien had recovered more fully.  "I am glad you will recuperate, my friend," the Dwarf said kindly.  "I would linger here much longer, but you should rest, and I must rid myself of the stench of Orcs.  Mayhap I shall see you on the morrow."

            Nimfëalórien smiled despite his fatigue.  "Thank you, Gimli," he whispered.  "I shall dream of your caves tonight…"  The words dwindled into silence, and the young Elf's eyes relaxed and became still.  He slept once more.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Gimli gratefully sank down into the pool's crystalline water, letting it lave his bruises and sluice the filth from his body.  The water was cool but not uncomfortably so, and it felt good against his hot skin.  He soaked the matted length of his beard, carefully untwining the thick warrior's plaits and combing the gory snarls away with his squareish fingers.  The black Orc fluids slowly dissolved in the clear water and then sank to the bottom to become lost in the clean mud that lay beneath.  Gimli gave a short sigh of contentment as he scrubbed the encrusted enemy viscera from his skin; much as he relished the exhilaration of combat, he hated the stench of Orc and refused to tolerate it on his person for any longer than was necessary.

The Dwarf had left his soiled clothing and mail on the bank, along with his axe and helm.  He fully intended to rinse out the fabric and then clean and polish his armaments after he had finished bathing himself.  Also on the shore was a small pile of fresh clothing, the only other garments he had brought with him from Erebor.  The air hovering over the silver surface of the pool was fresh and clean, but it smelled of plants—a scent not especially prized by Dwarves, who were far more interested in their crafts of stone and metal and gem.  Still, Gimli appreciated the absence of foul air in the place; it was a welcome change from the day's business of wading through reeking corpses.  Relief there was to be had in the silence, as well, for the din of blades grew wearisome in the ears.  

The pool itself was located in a small, quiet clearing surrounded by towering mallorn trees.  Gimli had sought out just such a locale, one that was unlit by carven lamps—and unoccupied.  He had surreptitiously observed some of the larger pools nearer to the City, and they were all populated with relaxing Elves.  Gimli had no wish to prance about undressed in the company of such a throng; Elves were known for their mocking dispositions toward Dwarves, and he rather wanted to avoid their prying eyes.  Also, his mind was filled with things that he wished to contemplate without interruption.  So it was that he had come to this pool, a small reservoir of silvery moonlight entrenched in darkness.  Gimli had carefully taken note of the direction in which lay Caras Galadhon, for he had no desire to lose his way in the expanse between the City's light and the deep shadows of the forest.  

"That would be yet another humiliating story for Gandalf to add to his collection," Gimli muttered to himself, recalling the tale the wizard had spun concerning the young Legolas and Lelemir in their father's court.  He scuffed his large hands through his thick hair, dipping below the water's surface in order to rinse away the day's sweat that had collected beneath his close-fitting helm.  For just an instant, he wished he was at home, lounging with his father and friends in one of the steaming underground baths at Erebor.  They were fed by hot springs that ran beneath the mountain, and when _aelinros sap was added to the water, a cleansing foam swelled up to meet Gimli's chin.  _

Gimli stood up once more, casting a gaze about his surroundings.  The monolithic trees waved gently in a high-wafting breeze, and slight ripples erupted across the pool's serene face with the Dwarf's every movement.  Ithil lent its silver glow to every leaf, stalk, and blade of grass in the clearing.  Nothing Gimli saw reminded him at all of his father's halls in the Kingdom under the Mountain.  He sighed to himself, feeling for the first time a pang of melancholy rooted in longing for his own home and kin.  Even the kindliness of a friendly Elf or the smile of the fairest lady could not supplant the ease and familiarity of home.  

"Ah, my friend," the Dwarf murmured sadly, thinking of Legolas as he had oft done of late.  He wondered how the Elf fared at that moment.  Thoughts of Saruman's treachery brought a black scowl to Gimli's visage, for he knew well that the wizard was not likely to show any favor towards Legolas.  Gimli hated to entertain the thought that his friend might be suffering, but in truth, that was a detestably real prospect.  

Gimli cast another long look around at the silver pool and its ring of looming mallorns.  He quelled the uprising of wistfulness in his mind and swore an oath to himself that he would not set a foot back in his father's realm until—be it in life or in death—Legolas was freed.

With those grim thoughts, Gimli hastily finished scouring his skin, for the water had ceased to be soothingly cool and was beginning to chill him.  He traipsed up onto the bank, dripping clear water all the way, and quickly dressed.  The Dwarf did not care overmuch that his fresh clothing was now dampened by contact with his wet skin and hair.  Truthfully, though he was yet sore and tired, and also hungry, Gimli felt far better than he had. 

He squeezed as much water as he could from his long, wiry hair and beard, then set about retwining his thick moustache into the traditional plaits of adult Dwarven warriors in Erebor.  He had first crafted his own twin braids when he had felt prepared to come of age—that is, after his first successful battle with an Orc.  It had been a rather proud day for him, especially after three of his relatives had challenged him to single combat after the day's battle in order to test his readiness and resolve.  Gimli had won two of the three ensuing skirmishes, but the third had been lost only because (being a young Dwarf) he had become exhausted from the two previous conflicts, not to mention his earlier battle with the Orc.

Gimli smiled to himself.  Happier times, those were.  He finished replaiting his moustache, then bound the ends of the thick braids with his small silver clasps.  Having done that, he carefully rinsed and scrubbed his leathern armor, then washed the grime from his sullied under-tunic and trousers; he would clean and polish his metal armaments once he had reached his flet.  Stuffing his feet into his boots, Gimli rolled his wet garments into a bundle and tied them up within his equally soaked leathers.  These he slung over a shoulder, leaving his hands free to carry his axe, chain-mail, and helmet.

By the time he reached the City's bright confines again, the Dwarf was well and truly feeling his exhaustion.  Most of his aches would vanish by morning, he knew, but only if he could find his _flet and settle down to sleep.  Unfortunately, each and every tree in Lothlórien looked very much the same to his untrained eyes.  Gimli frowned, muttering a few choice words in his own language.  How was he supposed to find his way back to the __flet given him by Galadriel?  Nimfëalórien had guided him to the clearing to join the host of the Golden Wood early that morn, but Gimli had no idea if he was even facing the direction in which lay the tree he sought._

Even as he thought these things, however, a youthful-looking Elf maiden approached from where she had been standing concealed in the shadows of the mallorns.  Gimli rather thought she resembled Lord Elrond's daughter, whom he had briefly glimpsed at the dinner given at Rivendell.  The lady was arrayed in simple gray and white, with long tresses as silver as the surface of the pool Gimli had recently made use of.  Her eyes were wide and set far apart, but they were kind.  "Master Gimli?" she asked softly, coming nearer.

"Yes, my lady," Gimli replied, curious as to her presence and purpose.

"I am Líssulma, a handmaiden to the Lady Galadriel," the Elf maiden said with a small curtsy of sorts.  "My Lady presumed you might seek out the Celebaelin, the Lake of Silver.  I was sent hither to collect you upon your return to the City, for I am to escort you back to your flet."

Gimli smiled broadly.  "By the Hammer, Lady Líssulma, I was just now wondering how I was going to find my way around the Lady's fair but terribly confusing Wood!"  He bowed as best he could with his burdens.  "I thank you for your offer, and also that you have waited here for me!  It has not been too long, I hope."

Líssulma smiled gently.  "Nay, Master Gimli, I have been here but a few minutes.  The Lady is quite accurate in her judgments of time.  Come, I shall take you to your flet, so you may sleep after today's battles."

Gimli adjusted the bundle at his shoulder and fell into step beside the silver-haired Elf maiden.  "If I may ask, my lady, how did Lady Galadriel know I would go to the pool that I did?"

"The Lady knows her realm well, Master Gimli, better than anyone save perhaps Lord Celeborn.  She imagined that you would wish to avoid washing in the company of her warriors, and so by taking into account the more frequently-used pools in the City and the location of the healing pavilions—yes, the Lord and Lady both know of your visit to the young Elf you saved today—she decided that you would seek out one of three seldom-employed pools," Líssulma explained.  "Once I have taken you to your flet, I shall go and retrieve my fellow handmaidens from where they wait still near the other two possible locations."

Gimli was astonished.  Galadriel was extraordinarily concerned for his welfare while he stayed in Lórien, it seemed.  The knowledge was humbling.  He finally found words.  "Please, Lady Líssulma, when you next see Lady Galadriel, give her this message: _'Gimli son of Glóin is amazed and grateful for the Lady of Lórien's interest in his wellbeing, and should like the opportunity to repay her in full kind if possible.'  Will you give her those words, my lady?"_

Líssulma nodded.  "Of course, Master Gimli.  If I may say so, Lady Galadriel is not alone in her concern.  My Lord Celeborn has taken a marked interest in your stay here, as well.  They both speak highly of you."

Gimli felt warmed through at the second-hand praise.  "Thank you for correcting me, Lady Líssulma.  Would you kindly extend the same message to Lord Celeborn also, then?"

"Certainly."  The lady glanced down at her charge, then said, "Again, if I am permitted to voice my thoughts, Master Gimli, may I say that you are not at all what I expected?"

"As to your first query, you may speak as you please, my lady," Gimli told her.  "And I do hope that your remark was a complimentary one, although if not, I suppose I cannot be surprised.  Do I still reek of Orcs?"

Líssulma laughed aloud.  "Nay, Master Gimli, Celebaelin has cleansed that foulness from you.  Yes, my observation was a compliment to be sure.  Your folk are not often well-regarded among my people, and if you will forgive my saying so, I was amazed when I was told of the Lord and Lady's decision to allow you to enter their realm.  But I see now that they are far more perceptive than I, for you are indeed a pleasant and cordial sort."

"Thank you," Gimli said, "but I must be honest as well: I have not always been so cordial to your people.  'Twas my friendship with Legolas that bettered my opinion of Elves.  He taught me much, and I in turn instructed him in the customs of my kin."

"Mirkwood's prince was blessed to have secured such friendship; it is rare," Líssulma said quietly.  "Even now I hear your sorrow at his loss, and it moves me.  I do hope you may yet find a means of salvage for Legolas."

"As do I," Gimli replied.  

They reached the base of the great mallorn whose branches supported Gimli's _flet in due course, and Líssulma waved a slender hand at the white ladder.  "We have arrived," she said.  "Do you require any assistance in carrying your belongings up to your lodging, Master Gimli?" _

"No, but thank you for the offer," the Dwarf replied congenially.  "Again, I thank you for your guidance and encouragement, my lady.  And please, give the same regards on my behalf to your fellow maidens, those who waited at the other pools for me."

"I shall," the Elf maiden replied.  "Sleep peacefully, Master Gimli."

"You also, Lady Líssulma," Gimli said.  When she had gone, he climbed up to his flet.  It was a long journey, and his abused muscles were protesting mightily by the time he reached the white platform, but the softly glowing vines and bed of boughs seemed all the more inviting for his toil.  Gimli carefully hung his wet clothing to dry, then placed his metal armaments on the ground near the bed so that his axe was within easy reach, as was his preference.  He would clean and polish the weapon and chain-mail in the morning, for he was simply too tired to do so before then.  The low, rhythmic voices of the Elves singing nearby did nothing to alleviate his exhaustion.  With a sigh, Gimli collapsed into the bed, and he slept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            End of Chapter 15.  

**Name notes: **

1) _Tasáriel (Elf of Lórien, healer at the pavilions) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "willow-lady."_

2) _Lómeldarion (Elf of Lórien, father of Nimfëalórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "echo of the Eldar."_

3) _Tinlórewen (Elf of Lórien, mother of Nimfëalórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "sparkle-golden-maiden."_

4) _Líssulma (Elf of Lórien, handmaiden to Galadriel) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "sweet rain."_

**A few cultural notes:**

Lady Tinlórewen gave Gimli an official statement of gratitude as a "daughter of the House of Angrod son of Finarfin."  That isn't just some random set of names she claimed!  Finarfin was a prince of the Noldorin Elves, and became the ruler of the Noldor who remained in the Undying Lands.  And not only was Finarfin the father of Angrod, to whose line Tinlórewen belongs, but he was also the father of Galadriel herself!  So Tinlórewen is actually related (perhaps distantly) to Lady Galadriel!  Pretty nifty. 

Also, Gimli made use of a presumably Dwarven exclamation: "By the Hammer!"  What's the back story there?  It goes back to "The Silmarillion."  See, the Dwarves weren't in the original creation plan, but one of the Valar, Aulë, got impatient and decided to make a race all by himself—the Dwarves.  Well, of course, Ilúvatar (God) knew about it, and when He confronted Aulë, the poor Vala was so ashamed of his own haste that he offered to destroy his creations.  "The Silmarillion" says that Aulë wept and raised his great hammer, and that the Dwarves were afraid and begged him—in the language that Aulë had devised for them—to spare their lives.  Ilúvatar had mercy on them and stopped the Vala from destroying the Dwarves, but that's where I got my exclamation from.  The "hammer" incident seems to have worked its way into everyday Dwarven expression.

Anyhoo, Chapter 16 is in the works.  Review, please!  


	16. A Dwarf among Elves

**Title:** The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Sixteen

**Summary:** If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…

**Notes:** This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  

**Disclaimer:** Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!

**Further notes:** My Elvish resources are: "The Languages of Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  

**Replies to reviews:**

Lady Korana: Hello, and welcome to "The Weeping Wraith!"  I emailed a reply to your review, but I would like to thank you again for reading and reviewing this li'l venture of mine.  I am so sorry about the formatting errors; it took me a bit, but I finally figured out how to fix them!  Yay!  Keep reading, and enjoy!  :)

frodolover: Welcome to my corner of FF.net!  I'm sorry you thought the past few chapters were a mite boring; but I assure you, Frodo still has a lot to do before we reach the end of "The Weeping Wraith!"  These chapters set in Lórien serve two distinct purposes: 1) to explore more fully some of the characters of LOTR who never really get much attention (i.e. Gimli, Celeborn, Thranduil, etc.); and 2) to set up the circumstances necessary for the action to return to Frodo at Isengard and to the Renewed Fellowship on the plains of Eastfold.  Sigh, so many simultaneous stories to be told, so much writing required to do it properly.  Don't despair, nin mellon, for I have not forgotten poor Mr. Baggins.  His tale is not over yet.  Keep reading, and thank you for your review.  :)

Treehugger: Ah, my dear friend, you never fail to bring a smile to my face.  Thank you so much for the encouraging reviews!  I'm glad you liked the chapter…actually, I'm glad you've liked all the chapters thus far!  I agree, the Elves of Mirkwood and Lórien are very different, in both attitude and mannerisms.  King Thranduil and Lord Celeborn sure are different…but you'll have to read on to see that!  Thanks again, nin mellon! :) 

Dangerously Cheezy: Hey, there!  Thanks for the reviews; it's so heartening to get such compliments from so accomplished an author as yourself.  Truly!  Let me take this opportunity to state publicly that Eleanor is genius!  Also, do you realize that by reviewing Katharine the Great, you have become "Greated" Cheeze?  [wink wink] Puns forever!!  ;) 

Elowyn Telcontar: Hey, sweetie, thanks for the reviews!  And may I say once again that I like your screen name?  You should post something here at FF.net, you and your collection of Legolas-junkies.  Ask the Epitome of All Evil if you're interested; she knows how to register.  Keep reading and writing, luv!  :)  Oh, and you were right about the Glittering Caves—Gimli hasn't been there yet.  I fixed the chapter so that he's recounting what others have told him.  ;)

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            Gimli woke just as the Sun's clean golden rays began trickling through the Wood's leaved awning.  He was strangely pleased that the first sound to greet his ears was the renewed Elven singing echoing throughout the heights of the City.  The unnatural quiet of the prior morning had truly disturbed him, more so than even he himself had been aware of.  Added to the cheerful voices of the nearby Elves were the piping melodies of small birds, and the breeze in the canopies above skittered over the leaves in a most gladsome manner.  Most of Lothlórien roused with a spirit of cheer, for the horde of Dol Guldur had been utterly dashed to the ground, and the inner sanctums of the Golden Wood had been wholly preserved.  

However, though Gimli could not perceive it, there was also a sad lilt to the mallorn-song, for there were yet slain Elven warriors secreted beneath the masses of enemy dead.  Their blood mingled with that of the Orcs, seeping into the roots of the mighty trees and prompting a mournful whisper among the mighty boughs.  But already there were many Elves wading through the matted corpses, seeking out fallen comrades so that they might be laid to rest away from their foes.  The Orcs themselves would be gathered and burned unceremoniously outside the borders of Lórien.  Then, under the tender ministrations of Celeborn and Galadriel, the damage to the Wood could be healed in time.  The trees would not grieve forever.

Unaware of the somber undercurrents floating about in the air of the Wood, Gimli set about cleaning his armaments immediately upon awakening.  He did not understand the Elvish words being sung in the branches nearby, but the tune was pleasant, and so he passed the morning in agreeable fashion.  Once his chain-mail shirt, helm, and axe were polished, the Dwarf donned the arms, preferring in the way of his folk to remain garbed as a warrior at all times.  He planned to seek out his breakfast at the public dining locale close at hand.  As before, the Elves had been instructed to provide for their visitor's needs, as he was not familiar enough with the Wood to obtain his own provisions.

Gimli set out from his _flet, walking easily atop the massive limbs that served as open passages amid the dwellings in the treetops.  He intended to pay another visit to the healers' pavilions after he had eaten, to learn whether Nimfëalórien remained there or had retired to his own home.  The Dwarf supposed he would have to ask for assistance in finding his way to the pavilions.  The constant need for aid from the Elves was becoming irksome, but Gimli bore it stoically, knowing that he was a guest and that the Lord and Lady were indeed gracious to offer their assistance.  _

When Gimli reached the dining platform, he found a bowl of fruit on one of the many unoccupied tables there.  An Elf maiden waited nearby to beckon to him and to pour a glass of light Elvish wine, the customary drink at mealtimes.  Gimli thanked her, then sat and enthusiastically picked up a large _lisseluin_, a sweet blue fruit with thin skin and a small, tough core.  It had become his favorite Elvish fruit, for its taste quite reminded him of a Dwarven-grown purple fruit known universally as the cavern-apple.  No one remembered its proper name, but it was a most popular dessert among Gimli's kin.  The dining locale was nearly empty, for most Elves woke early in the morning and breakfasted in their own homes; otherwise, many an Elf would have wondered at the Dwarf's curious smile as he ate and reminisced in such fashion.

Gimli had nearly finished his fruit when he caught movement out of the corner of one eye.  He turned to see a familiar Elf maiden approaching his table.  The Dwarf was surprised and delighted to see her, for she was Líssulma, Galadriel's handmaiden, who had guided him back to his _flet_ the night before.  Her silver locks spilled over her slender shoulders, harmonizing perfectly with her blue raiment and her necklace of white gems.  Gimli hardly noticed her garments, however, so pleased was he to see her again.  

"Lady Líssulma!" the Dwarf exclaimed, standing to greet her.  

The lady's smile was warm, and her widely set eyes sparkled with the dappled sunlight.  "Master Gimli," she said pleasantly.  Her tone was as rich and kind as it had been before.  "I trust you slept well?"

"I did, thank you.  Were your dreams kind to you last night?" Gimli asked, remembering again some of Legolas' tutoring in Elvish courtesy.

Líssulma laughed aloud to hear the casual Elven inquiry falling from the lips of a Dwarf.  "Ah, Gimli, you shall never cease to startle me with your knowledge of our customs!" she said with a pleased smile.  "Yes, I dreamed splendidly, thank you.  I am come to convey a message on behalf of the Lord and Lady.  They request that you join them in the Hall of Lórien as soon as you are able."

"I am able now," Gimli replied, carefully setting the bared core of the _lisseluin_ fruit on the plate provided for just that purpose.  He took up his axe and once more faced Líssulma.  "Am I to follow you, then?"

"Yes," the Elf maiden answered.  As they fell into step alongside each other, she continued, "I did not ask this of you last night, Master Gimli, but did you witness the coming of the host of Mirkwood to our aid?"

Gimli remembered well the pounding of the Elven horses and the gleaming of the warriors' mail.  "Yes, I did, my lady.  It was a marvelous sight, I must say, and certainly unforeseen!  But I wager their aid was not despised."

"Indeed not," Líssulma agreed.  "The Lord and Lady cordially welcomed King Thranduil; he has not come to the Wood in some time."

"I should like to know why the king himself chose to accompany his warriors into battle," Gimli mused, echoing his thoughts of the day before.  "It was most unusual, to my thinking at least."

The Elf maiden shook her head.  "That I do not know.  I suppose you shall have to ask the king himself if you would know for certain," she said.

Gimli greatly wished to question the handmaiden as to whether Thranduil was as arrogant and severe of temperament as he was sometimes described in Glóin's tales, but he kept the inquiry to himself.  The Dwarf did not think it wise to insult the Elvenking prior to making proper acquaintance.  "Perhaps he seeks word of Legolas," Gimli heard himself ruminating aloud.

"It may be thus, but I do not know," Líssulma answered serenely.

They continued on, exchanging lighter conversation as they went.  Líssulma asked many questions concerning Gimli's travels with the Fellowship; she had journeyed in her youth, and wished to know whether the state of the world had worsened since her visits to the lands beyond Lórien's borders.  Gimli readily answered her queries, as he had done for Nimfëalórien, for he was elated to have made the acquaintance another such kind-hearted Elf.  He realized that Galadriel had arranged it so.  Of course, the Lady knew of Líssulma's friendly manner and unbiased approach, and so had appointed her to be Gimli's escort, at least for a short time.  The Dwarf was again overcome with gratitude at Galadriel's kindness.  

The two arrived at the Hall in due time, and Líssulma ushered Gimli into the expansive receiving chamber.  The place was filled with the low hum of conversation, for the elders of Lothlórien had also been summoned to parley.  Líssulma led Gimli to stand near the two chairs set in the center of the elliptical chamber, where sat Celeborn and Galadriel, as was their custom.  Gimli, for his part, was delighted to have been placed to the left of the Lady; she was ever more radiant when beheld from so near a position.  Líssulma dipped her head to the Lord and Lady, then again to Gimli, before turning and gracefully exiting the hall.

When the handmaiden had completed her errand, Celeborn raised one long-fingered hand, and instant silence fell over the chamber.  "Greetings and good morning to all here assembled," the Lord of Lórien began.  "The Lady and I are pleased to welcome our northern kinsman Thranduil, king of the Woodland Realm.  His timely aid yesterday proved most significant to the eventual conclusion of the battle."

Gimli's eyes were drawn to the figure standing slightly to the right of Celeborn's chair.  Thranduil appeared a stark contrast to the luminous but sparsely decorated sovereigns of Lórien; he was tall and strongly built, of strikingly chiseled form and feature, and dressed in richly embroidered green garments and verdant cloak.  White and green gems gleamed at his belt.  His sword was suspended by his side, and his pale golden hair lay draped on his shoulders.  His gaze was keen and piercing, much as Gimli's father had described it.  Yet though the Elvenking was plainly of the same strain of nobility as were the rulers of Lothlórien, Gimli's impression was that he seemed set apart from them in some unfathomable but elemental aspect.

"The valor of the warriors of Lórien must not be reduced in the telling, Lord Celeborn," Thranduil remarked in smooth Westron.  His voice was as clear as a flute on a cold morning, but deeper than Gimli would have expected.  "My people were instrumental only in containing the _yrch_ and slaying them as they fled your defenders."

"Then it is as I said, for the end result was far more satisfying than it would have been if those you slew had escaped," Celeborn replied.  At Thranduil's brief nod of acknowledgement, the Elf-lord continued, "Now I would ask that you impart wherefore you arrived in such an opportune manner, Thranduil, and what your purpose may be in coming; unless it be solely for the sake of destroying enemy creatures as they menace foreign realms."

"Nay, 'tis not my sole cause," the Elvenking of Mirkwood said with a slight inflection of darksome delight in his voice; Gimli saw that his hand rested upon his flashing sword-hilt.  "Though the slaying of Orcs is good sport and cause for cheer, such pursuits are not sufficient to draw me from my realm, especially when those same enemies threaten my own borders as we speak."  He paused for a moment, then resumed his discourse, softly but steadily.  "Many ill tidings have reached my court in bygone days.  Everywhere there are reports of increased Enemy activity; the dark fortress of Dol Guldur has awakened, and many hordes pour forth from its depths to terrorize every passageway between Mirkwood and her allies at Rivendell and Lothlórien.  I must advise you all of this: I deem attack to be well nigh at my door.  My green woodland shall soon be met with adversity to equal any seen in many centuries past."  As Thranduil spoke thusly a shadow fell over his face, and Gimli saw a hint of very real distress in the Elf-lord's visage.    "Also, news has come by way of wings that the Easterlings beyond the River Carnen now menace my longstanding ally Brand, the king of Dale—that realm of Men which lies beyond the trees at my northeastern border.  Brand intends to join with the Dwarves of Erebor to repel the coming incursion.  But should those at Dale and Erebor fail, the Woodland Realm will be enclosed by her foes, and I do not imagine many of my people would survive such besiegement."

"And yet you have not remained to uphold the defense of your realm," Galadriel observed evenly.

Thranduil's eyes flared challengingly.  "Taurëmíredil holds the throne in my absence.  Should attack come, I have faith that he will meet it with both wisdom and severity."

Gimli was amazed at the umbrage he heard in the Elf-lord's tone, and that Thranduil would direct such antipathy at Galadriel herself was inconceivable in the Dwarf's mind.  Gimli began to understand Celeborn's comment to Lelemir about her father's "oftentimes less than mild temperament," for Thranduil evidently was indeed possessed of a fairly belligerent streak.  However, Galadriel's resonant voice remained calm despite the Elvenking's ire.  "I doubt it not, son of Oropher; you have instructed your eldest well in the art of governing," she said.

Thranduil closed his eyes briefly, and when he again looked at the Lady he appeared repentant.  "Forgive me, my Lady.  My temperament is stretched taut these days, and I am afraid it is wont to surface at most inopportune times.  You know that these evils I have hitherto spoken of are not all that trouble my heart, nor are they indeed utmost.  Word has reached me that my youngest son is a prisoner of the traitorous wizard at Orthanc; and this of late, that my daughter has chosen to take her brother's place among the Walkers who yet endeavor to destroy the Dark One's treasure."  The Elven lord's sigh was heavy with ill-obscured pain.  "I assure you, naught but the distress and peril of my children could have taken me from my halls at such a time as this."

"This we know well," Celeborn said; and Gimli was surprised to see that a bleak aspect of remembered anguish had replaced the Lord of Lórien's usual tranquil gaze.  "Galadriel and I share altogether in your grief, for as you will recall, we too have known the pain of a child taken astray."

Gimli's fingers tightened on the hilt of his axe as he heard the somber words, so startling were they.  He had not ever considered whether the Lord and Lady were possessed of children.  His heart groaned within him to think that any child of Galadriel's had been lost to the world; such a child would have been wondrously fair to behold, and surely as gentle in manner as the Lady herself.  Gimli suddenly longed to learn whether Celeborn and Galadriel had borne any other children—and also he wished to discover what had befallen the one who was lost.  Yet it was not the time to make such inquiries; indeed, he doubted whether any time would be appropriate for broaching the subject.

There was silence in the Hall for some time, and then Galadriel spoke once more.  "I would that your young son meets a fate less deplorable than that of Celebrían, Thranduil.  Therefore heed me in this: you possess yet another ally in this Wood, one who has proven himself most loyal and worthy.  Long have his people been a source of disagreement for you, but I tell you that to turn aside his aid because of past grievances would be the height of folly.  Consider him with your own eyes, therefore, and choose well."  The Lady turned her clear gaze to meet Gimli's.  "Stand forth, Gimli son of Glóin," she said.

The Dwarf did as she commanded, stepping out confidently from among the Elven councilors.  He noticed then that Hithílion, the curt advisor to Mirkwood's ruler, was standing some short distance away, and that the Elf's cold gaze was fixed on him.  Gimli disregarded Hithílion's stare and bowed deeply, declaring, "Hail, King Thranduil of Mirkwood.  I am honored to meet you."

The Elvenking regarded Gimli with a judicious gaze.  "I have heard much of you, Gimli Glóin's son," he said impassively.  "Tell me, why do you linger here in this Elvish haven, among strange folk and unfamiliar settings?"

            "I linger on behalf of your son Legolas, my lord," Gimli replied sincerely, calmly meeting the intense gray eyes boring into him.  "He has become my most cherished friend in the course of our travels together, and my greatest wish is to see him walk free of the tower at Isengard."  He spoke the name of Saruman's abode as though it were a curse, then placed the head of his axe on the floor and once more bowed low.  "If that is what you seek as well, my lord, then I am wholly at your service."

            "Strange days these are," Thranduil mused aloud, raising one sculpted brow and glancing at Celeborn and Galadriel.  "A Dwarf pledges allegiance to an Elven lord, and that on behalf of an Elven prince."  The Elvenking again looked at Gimli and continued, "But perhaps it is not so unusual for you, Master Gimli; Mirmithúial the rider spoke to me of the young wounded Elf of Lórien for whom you expended much alarm and care yestereve."

            "I did so not to garner favor, I assure you, my lord," Gimli answered, straightening, "but only in order that a friend might survive to see the morrow."    

"That was the conviction held by Mirmithúial when he told me of your concern, and his discernment is trustworthy," Thranduil said, nodding slowly.  "You make me curious, Gimli Glóin's son.  Is it your custom to seek after such unusual companions?"

"If you would know my opinion of Elves in general, King Thranduil, then it is this," Gimli replied.  "You are a strange folk to my mind, and I no more comprehend many of your ways than you understand those of my people.  Yet there are those among you who possess goodness and nobility in measure beyond that of any I have seen elsewhere."  His gaze strayed to the intent faces of Celeborn and Galadriel, then turned again to Thranduil.  "Legolas your son is one such individual, my lord.  I will tell you truthfully that I have not always thought so.  We were first grudging companions, bound in our travels only by a common hatred of the Enemy.  But in the course of our journey, we came to share a trust and respect born of peril.  Legolas taught me much about your people, and also graciously listened in turn to my accounts regarding the folk of Erebor.  Such kindness was unique in my remembrance, and I have come to value your son as both a skilled warrior and a cherished friend.  Therefore I ask you, my lord Thranduil, to give me leave to lend whatever service I may in Legolas' rescue."  With that appeal, Gimli fell silent and awaited the king's reply.

Thranduil's expression remained inscrutable, and he held Gimli's gaze for a long moment before he spoke.  "Your speech surprises me, Master Gimli.  Never before have I heard such sentiment from one of your ilk.  Yet it holds true with the testimony of Mirmithúial, and also of Thalion and Forngíliath; they were amazed at your concern for the young Elf whose life was saved by your swift aid.  Furthermore, I have heard no words less than agreeable from Celeborn and Galadriel in the matter."  The Elf-lord flicked a thoughtful glance at the Lord and Lady, then continued his discourse.  "Too, my Legolas is possessed of high standards and good judgment in the choosing of preferred companions—traits he acquired from myself.  And no valid ill report have I heard spoken of you in my own court."  Thranduil then drew himself up to his full height, seeming to come to a decision.  "Therefore I accept your offer, Gimli of Erebor, for I sense no deceit in you.  If Legolas' freedom you seek, then I welcome your aid."

"Thank you, my lord," Gimli said, not without great relief.  He ignored Hithílion's ill-concealed grimace.  "May your trust be well repaid." 

Thranduil's expression did not soften; perhaps, Gimli thought, the king's sanction had been more difficult to grant than he would divulge.  "See that it is, Master Gimli," he said.  "I shall be dreadfully unhappy if your good repute comes to naught."

"It shall not, my lord," Gimli replied boldly.  Thranduil seemed to accept that, for he said no more on the matter, but merely nodded once and turned to again face the Lord and Lady.

"I am pleased to witness such an alliance," Celeborn remarked, speaking for the first time in many minutes.  The Lord of Lórien gave Thranduil a markedly amused glance; remembering, perhaps, the discord of ages past between the Elvenking and Gimli's father Glóin.  "Peculiar are the means of Ilúvatar, that He sees fit to unite rivals and sons of rivals in this manner."

"Peculiar indeed," Galadriel agreed.  She turned her clear gaze to regard Mirkwood's ruler.  "What is your intent now, Thranduil?  Surely you do not mean to divest your kingdom of so many of her defenders for long?"  

"I have brought with me only as many as could be spared from the guard," Thranduil replied.  "Two score and one hundred they are, all valiant warriors, and one third of their number mounted upon swift steeds reared in my own stables.  My son Taurëmíredil insisted upon sending them with me to guard against roaming enemy troops."  The Elf-lord's hand fell away from the hilt of his sword, and his voice lowered.  "My intention is to here seek counsel, Celeborn and Galadriel, for in truth I do not know what I will do.  If your wisdom advises me to return to my realm, then it is likely that I shall do so.  If there be some manner in which I may hasten the release or salvage of my son, then I will avail myself of it.  But it is maddening to lose a child to a war in which I am not vigorously participating."

"To seek counsel is wise, Thranduil, but I believe that you intend to do exactly as you deem best regardless of what is said here," Celeborn stated.  A slight smile removed the sting from his words.  "I daresay that you would not act against your own judgment even if Manwë Súlimo himself appeared to give you such instruction."  The Elven lord sighed aloud then, and said, "Nevertheless, I do empathize with this quandary.  Your desire is not to watch from your walls for an attack to come upon your kingdom, but instead to play a role in the heart of the larger conflict."

            "Legolas is not yet lost, Thranduil, but only unseen," Galadriel added compassionately.  "Your daughter Lelemir is among valiant allies, including the Chieftain of the Dúnedain and a Guardian of Imladris.  Do not cede to undue sorrows before their time."

            Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgement.  "You both speak truly, as is your custom."  He gave the Lord of Lórien a puckish glance.  "Although some remarks ring less justly than others.  I would surely heed the word of Manwë, Celeborn, but I bear no such obligation toward any who walk the earth."  Gimli perceived that the king's tone was only partly jesting, and he was again surprised by Thranduil's willfulness.  But the Elf-lord's voice became grim and sincere as he added, "Even so, I would know your judgment in this, Lord and Lady of the Wood, for there are but few souls in the land whose counsel is as steadfast."

Celeborn touched his fingertips together in assent.  "Very well.  One hundred and forty, valiant though they may be, cannot stand in opposition to the force of Isengard," he declared.  

Thranduil's expression took on a slightly indignant aspect.  "Only a fool would march on such a bastion with so little strength of arms," he said.

"That, I believe, was the Lord's reasoning," Galadriel replied.  "Therefore some other alternative must be found.  Tarry here some days, Thranduil, and I shall look into my Mirror.  Mayhap I shall see something that will illumine your path, for the way is yet unclear."

The Elvenking inclined his head deferentially.  "I thank you for your kindness, Lord and Lady.  I shall indeed remain for a time.  My people would do well to glimpse your realm, for it breathes hope into hearts; too many have despaired of cleansing their home as of late."

"Then may they find rest and resolve beneath the golden boughs," Celeborn said.  "In the interim, perhaps you will take the afternoon meal with the Lady and myself, for there is much to discuss."  The Elf-lord raised his gaze to address the assembled counselors of Lórien.  "I urge you all to consider what you have heard today.  Should any of your number come upon a proposal that seems good regarding the King of Mirkwood's aspiration, bring it forth for consideration.  Until such time, you are free to take your leave."

The Elves gathered in the chamber began to murmur amongst themselves as they withdrew from the Hall.  Gimli wished to remain with Galadriel and the two lords, but he had not been invited, and so he followed the counselors out of the chamber.  He did not see Hithílion.  Fiery Anor had ascended to its peak in the sky while Gimli had stood in congress with the Elves.  It then occurred to the Dwarf that he had intended to visit Nimfëalórien, and he still wished to do so.  For that reason, he asked one of the Elves departing the Hall to direct him to the healers' pavilions.

"Only one pavilion remains in use," the Elf answered.  "If you seek word of young Fëaneth, he has likely returned to his father's house."

"I do not wish to hinder you for long, good Elf, but will you further assist me in finding Lord Lómeldarion's home?" Gimli asked.  "You need not take me yourself; I will be content with simple instructions."

The Elf looked doubtful.  "To one unfamiliar with the City, no instructions will be both simple and useful."

"Give the instructions to me, Lord Harmatar," Líssulma said, approaching from Gimli's left.  "The Lady has charged me with the guidance of Master Gimli while he remains in the Wood."

Gimli was well pleased to hear her words.  Harmatar quickly exchanged dialogue with the handmaiden in their own tongue, and then the Elf-lord nodded to Gimli and departed.  Líssulma smiled at the Dwarf.  "You seem surprised, Master Gimli."

"Not surprised, Lady Líssulma, merely delighted to learn that I shall have the pleasure of your companionship more often than I had hoped," Gimli replied.  "Is this arrangement to your liking?"

"Of course.  Who else among my family may say that they have walked in the company of a Dwarf named Elf-friend by the Lady of Lórien herself?" Líssulma jested.  "I quite enjoy speaking with you, Master Gimli.  If you have no protest, then I shall be glad to serve as your escort."  She beckoned to him.  "Come.  We shall go to Fëaneth's home and see about his wellbeing."  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Nimfëalórien's father was quite shocked to find a Dwarf at his door, asking about his son's health.  Lord Lómeldarion was an Elf of dignified heritage and high standing, and he was entirely unaccustomed to inviting Dwarves into his home.  However, Lady Tinlórewen interceded, reminding her husband that Gimli had saved their son's life, and therefore deserved their welcome.  Lómeldarion consented, and while his manner remained stiff and uneasy, he was not at all disagreeable.  His wife, however, was as pleased to see Gimli as she had been the night before at the pavilions.

            Tinlórewen brought Gimli and Líssulma to her son's room, where Nimfëalórien was resting in his soft hammock.  "The healers instructed us to keep him quiet for today and tomorrow, until the poison is fully cleansed from his blood," the lady of the house told them.  "I can only allow a short visit today, but I am glad you came, Master Gimli.  Nimfëalórien will be as glad, I am certain."  She smiled at her visitors' inquiring expressions.  "Yes, my son has been given leave to take on his rightful name.  'The young spirit is now the white spirit,' so he says."

Nimfëalórien was overjoyed to see Gimli.  The Dwarf noticed with relief that his young friend's coloring had returned to its natural hue, and that he was not as quickly fatigued as he had been at the healers' pavilion.  Gimli introduced his escort to Nimfëalórien, who blushed slightly at the Elf maiden's lovely smile.  The Dwarf also made certain to congratulate Nimfëalórien on reclaiming his given name.  They would have spoken together for many hours, as Nimfëalórien wished to hear another of Gimli's traveling tales; however, Lady Tinlórewen insisted upon maintaining strict compliance with the healers' counsel, and so she ushered Gimli and Líssulma out of her son's room after a somewhat brief meeting.  

"You may certainly return on the morrow, Master Gimli," Tinlórewen told him.  "And your charming guide is welcome as well."  

Gimli did not notice the sparkle in the lady's eye as she added the last phrase; he was too untrained in the ways of Elven mothers.  Líssulma, however, detected Tinlórewen's meaning, and she flushed more deeply than Gimli had ever witnessed.  Moreover, the handmaiden would not explain her reaction to him, no matter how persistently he questioned her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Gimli and Líssulma passed the following day in each other's company, and they spoke of many things both distant and close by.  They heard nothing more of Thranduil or his doings in the Golden Wood, and no council was called to recommence the dialogue regarding the Elvenking's course.  Gimli supposed that the warriors of Mirkwood were likely glad for the respite—he had heard much rumor concerning the fear and darkness growing in the forest realm.  He and Líssulma again visited the home of Nimfëalórien, where Lómeldarion graciously invited them to stay for the evening meal.  Gimli was introduced to his friend's two younger sisters, both of whom stared at the Dwarf for a long period of time before their mother chastised them.  Gimli was not bothered by the young Elf maids' inquisitiveness; rather, he found it almost charming.  

            The next morning, Nimfëalórien met Gimli for breakfast.  The Elf's strength had not fully returned, but he was mending well, and he voiced his wish to spend the day with Gimli; a wish that the Dwarf shared, for as delightful as Líssulma's company was, he had missed the easy camaraderie that he shared with Nimfëalórien.  The handmaiden declined to join the two in the days' proceedings, saying that they should pass the day "away from the womenfolk, doing whatever men do when there are no ladies about."

            Thus Gimli and Nimfëalórien went to the Elf's favorite fountain and sat in the hearing of its liquid chattering, dining lightly on the fruit, dried meat, and wine they had brought along.  Nimfëalórien wished to know all that had transpired since his wounding in the battle for Lórien, and so Gimli recounted his meeting with Líssulma and their various comings and goings afterwards.  The Dwarf would not have spoken so much of the Elf maiden, but Nimfëalórien seemed to take particular interest in the subject, inquiring as to Líssulma's disposition and predilections.  Gimli swiftly understood his young friend's motive, and he took great satisfaction in cordially ribbing the Elf.

            Nimfëalórien took the gibes in good humor, and rejoined with, "Have you no Dwarf maiden to return to, Master Gimli?"

            "Hah!  No, not I, good Nimfëalórien," Gimli harrumphed.  "I see no need to bind myself to a maid of any kind.  There are far worthier pursuits to be had."

            "I may well agree with you, Gimli, but surely you do not begrudge me a modicum of curiosity?" Nimfëalórien asked.

            "Such curiosity has been the ensnarement of many a fine warrior," Gimli maintained.

            Nimfëalórien then laughed aloud, saying, "Ah, but without such ensnarement neither you nor I would be sitting here discussing the matter!"  Gimli conceded the point, and the Elf continued, "Come now, let us leave off speaking of maids and ensnarement!  Were I but a trifle less weary owing to the Orc poison, I would take you hunting for the gray-backed deer that run through the outer fringes of the Wood."

            "Take no thought of it, Nimfëalórien.  You must rest in order to recover your strength," Gimli told him.  "As it happens, I am not unfamiliar with the gray-backed deer.  They are a favorite repast in the halls of the Lonely Mountain."

            Thence the discussion turned to their various hunting exploits.  When they had exhausted that matter, Nimfëalórien asked to hear more of Gimli's tales concerning the lands beyond the borders of the Golden Wood.  The Dwarf was pleased to oblige; he recounted the doings of his own people at Erebor, and also what he knew of the nearby kingdom of Dale.  He then described what he had seen at Rivendell when he had accompanied his father to the Council called by Lord Elrond; Nimfëalórien was entranced by Gimli's narrative, for he had longed to visit the Last Homely House himself.

            The two remained conversing for all of the afternoon, and only when the Sun's light began to wane did they return to Nimfëalórien's home.  Gimli had been bidden to once again dine in the company of Lómeldarion and his household, for even the staid Elven lord was becoming quickly persuaded of the Dwarf's integrity.  Hence, Gimli passed a pleasant evening meal, and exchanged warm words with all of Nimfëalórien's family.  

            Night's raven wings had descended upon the earth when Nimfëalórien and Gimli departed the former's home and began to make their way to the latter's _flet.  The Dwarf noted that his friend's pace had grown fairly sluggish, and he was mildly concerned that he had overtired the young Elf.  "Are you feeling unwell, Nimfëalórien?" he asked._

            "I am merely weary, Gimli, but no more than that," the Elf answered.  "When I have seen you to your own lodging, I mean to retire at once to my hammock and savor my dreams."

            "I do not suppose you would welcome any speculation on my part as to whose face you wish to see in your dreams tonight," Gimli remarked drolly.

            "No, I would not, good Dwarf," Nimfëalórien answered impassively.  "I may be fatigued, but I can still make you regret your decision to leave your axe in your _flet for today."_

            They strolled in silence for several moments after that.  Then, the humor overtook them both at once, and they laughed gaily.  Had the two paused to listen to themselves, they might have realized what a strange scene they made; one short and thickset Dwarf, with one tall, lithe Elf, walking together in gleeful companionship, laughing beneath the serene canopies of Lothlórien.  Gimli was reminded of his many excursions with Legolas, and the banter they had engaged in along the way; however, the memory brought with it no melancholy or grimness, but only a renewed sense of purpose.  He felt more certain than ever before that Legolas' rescue was near at hand.

            Nimfëalórien and Gimli rounded the last bend and stepped onto the massive bough that led to the Dwarf's _flet_, but they halted in surprise when they saw the figure waiting at the end of the passage.  Lord Celeborn stood alone and solemn, a pillar of glinting silver among the golden lamps and softly glowing vines that illuminated the path.  He at once perceived the two companions' arrival, and as he came to meet them his long incandescent robes swept the smooth gray bark of the vast mallorn limb.

            "My Lord," Nimfëalórien said hastily, bowing low before the approaching Elf-lord.  Gimli did the same, although he was not nearly so anxious as his young friend.

            Celeborn's ageless features were both tranquil and alert, as was his norm.  "I am pleased to see you are convalescing, Nimfëalórien," he said kindly, drawing near to them.  "Your father told the Lady and I of your recovery, and also of his decision to restore your rightful name to you."

            "Yes, my Lord," the younger Elf replied, quite visibly awed that the Lord of Lórien was so familiar with the lesser happenings in the Wood.    

            "I see that you and Master Gimli have passed at least a part of the evening in each other's company," Celeborn continued, looking from Nimfëalórien to Gimli and back again.  "I thank you for obliging to escort him to his accommodations, but I should like to speak solely with him for a time."

            "Of course, my Lord," Nimfëalórien promptly responded.  He looked down at Gimli with a faint grin of remembered jests.  "I shall see you in the morning, good Gimli?"

            "Certainly," the Dwarf answered.  "Perhaps we may yet convince your lady to meet with us for a venture into the Wood."

            Nimfëalórien shook his head exasperatedly.  "You are impossible to cope with, Master Gimli.  Good night."

            "Good night," Gimli replied pleasantly, then watched the young Elf bow again to Celeborn and take his leave.

            The Lord of the Wood spoke as Nimfëalórien vanished around the curve of the bough.  "Will you walk with me, Gimli?" he asked softly.

            "Certainly, Lord Celeborn," the Dwarf answered.  He was completely baffled as to the Elf-lord's purpose, but he expected he would soon learn it.  He fell into step beside Celeborn, and did not say anything more, for at that moment silence seemed most appropriate.  

As they walked, Gimli gradually became aware of Celeborn's easy grace of movement; so fluid that he hardly disturbed the air as he passed, and with refined elegance that hearkened back to the Elder Days, when the great sovereigns of lore yet trod the earth.  The Lord of Lórien's step was light and noiseless against the pale limb, so that he looked to be gliding rather than walking.  He led Gimli on, yet unspeaking, and they came to a broad white ladder over which were suspended soft green and silver lamps.  Celeborn beckoned wordlessly, then descended to the forest's leaf-strewn floor.  Gimli followed behind, ever more curious, and soon he was once more walking at the Elf-lord's side, beneath the hazy golden glow of the lamps high above.  The mallorn trees stood silent, as dark obelisks soaring endlessly upwards into the night sky.  Gimli shivered slightly as he watched the shadows play over Celeborn's luminous robes; the Elven lord appeared a mere specter, an eerie phantasm of ivory skin and glistening silver raiment.

They came to a fissure in the mallorn host, and Gimli perceived a towering green wall before him, one formed of thick hedge and crawling vines.  The vines were dark, unlit by the glow of those that twined about the twigs in the bright City.  Caras Galadhon's warm radiance lay at their backs, providing only the faintest illumination; indeed, the sole source of light came from within the hedge-wall, seeping through minute cracks in the flora.  

Celeborn brought Gimli to a break in the green barrier, but stopped before entering in.  "Very few there are who have seen what I will show you, Gimli Glóin's son," he said softly, with eyes agleam in the pale light trickling from the entrance.  

The Dwarf nodded solemnly, unsure of what to say.  Therefore he maintained his silence and stepped with care into the short passageway formed by walls of greenery.  Where the partitions ended there was a wash of cool silver luminance.  Gimli blinked for a moment while his eyes adjusted, and when he beheld the sight before him he drew in a sharp breath laden with surprise and wonder.

The tall hedges enclosed a generous copse of trees like none Gimli had ever glimpsed before.  They were scarcely taller than Lord Celeborn himself, and slender; their white stems grew no larger than the width of a Man's wrist, and remained entirely bare until they blossomed into ample crowns of delicate white shoots and gleaming silver leaves.  Each leaf was shaped as a tear drop, and inlaid with hues of ivory, silver, even _mithril_, each overlapping the others so that every leaf shimmered of its own accord.  Suspended in various places were coiled lamps of pearl and silver, which cast their crystalline hues onto the trees and filled the place with refracted beams as to rival the argent glow of Ithil herself.  The grass was cool and lush, and only a light sprinkling of fallen silver leaves disrupted its deep indigo surface.

            Gimli was rendered speechless.  Long moments passed ere any speech fell into the pristine calm of the resplendent silver grove.  The Dwarf heard the soothing chime of bubbling water from somewhere within the coppice—a small fountain, perhaps, babbling its lively music to whomever would listen.

            "These are the _tithen celebyrn_," Celeborn murmured.  "My little silver trees."  And as Gimli finally wrenched his rapt stare from the scene before him, he looked up at the Elf-lord's face, which had taken on a translucent hue in the wash of the lamps.  There, written in every feature and shining from ageless eyes, the Dwarf saw scarcely-contained joy, the pleasure of a craftsman upon beholding his creation.  "They are alone in the world, for they grow nowhere else in all of Middle-earth," the Lord of Lórien continued, in a voice thick with passion.  "This is my garden and sanctuary, Gimli.  My refuge."

            "I have no words, my Lord," Gimli whispered hoarsely, barely able to force any sound out of his throat, which had closed up in overwhelming wonderment.  Never had he seen such austere splendor in such a perfectly blended environ; for though the silver trees glittered like the preciously wrought adornments of Dwarven kingdoms, they seemed to pulsate with the steady thrum of their life—the same life which flourished in all Elven realms, for the Firstborn held as sacred the beauty of Arda and its bounty.

            After several long minutes had passed by, Celeborn touched Gimli's shoulder.  "Come," he said.  "Let us go to the fountain, for there I would speak with you."

            Gimli followed the Elven lord deeper into the copse of trees, carefully guarding his hands lest one should be tempted to reach out and caress a delicate silver leaf where it quivered on its mooring.  As Celeborn moved among the trees, he appeared more and more to be but a part of the grove himself; as though the noblest of the _tithen celebyrn had been given leave to don the shape of they that traversed with feet and spoke with voices.  The Lord of the Wood's silver robes caught the scintillating beams of the spiraled lamps, and when he drew near to one such light source his form became almost unbearably dazzling.  _

            They came to a small fountain of carven white marble, which lay in the center of the grove and was surrounded by hanging lamps of mithril-gleam.  Its basin was enclosed by a rim thick enough to serve as a bench, and the figure in its center was that of a woman with flowing garments and hair; the water poured from within her cupped hands and plunged down into the clear pool at her feet.  Inscribed upon the marble of her small dais were lovingly carved runes that identified the woman as a depiction of Varda Elentári, from whose hands had sprung the light of the stars and the great Lights of Anor and Ithil.  Gimli, however, could not read the Elvish script, nor was he familiar with the significance of the figure's cupped palms; he thought, perhaps not altogether mistakenly, that the woman was a likeness of the Lady Galadriel.   

            Celeborn retrieved an object wrapped in white cloth from where it rested upon the smooth marble of the fountain's wide edge, then sat, letting the object rest on his lap.  He indicated that Gimli should sit beside him, and the Dwarf did so, no more aware of the Elf-lord's intent than he had been before entering the grove.

            "I have brought you to this place because I have made a decision," Celeborn began softly.  "It is a choice that I do not make lightly, Gimli Glóin's son, nor should it be taken as such; for it is the release of bitterness long-held, and the forgiveness of harm for which you cannot be held accountable."  He allowed his statements to linger in the still air for several moments before he resumed his discourse.  "I must tell you a story, so that you may understand my meaning more clearly.  Countless ages past, long before the waking of the Seven Fathers of your people, there was founded the great Elven realm of Doriath.  Its king was Elwë Singollo, who is most often remembered in lore as Elu Thingol; his wife was Melian the Maia, who took the form of a woman because of her love for Thingol."  Celeborn looked at the Dwarf sitting beside him at the fountain's edge.  "Does the lore of the Folk of the Mountain yet chronicle the account of Doriath, Gimli?"

            "I have heard some mentionings of a great Elven kingdom," Gimli answered.  "But none were concerned with they who dwelt there, nor their fate."

            "Then I shall tell you of these things, for they once lay heavily upon my heart," Celeborn said gravely.  "Thingol the King was specially wise, and he heeded the foresight of his wife Melian.  Thus the realm of Doriath was spared the misery of the great Wars that wracked Beleriand.  But Thingol's prudence faltered when he was confronted with his own daughter's love of a mortal man, for Lúthien desired to plight her troth with Beren son of Barahir, lord of the First House of the Edain.  Unwilling to grant that his daughter should wed a mortal and thereby forfeit the endless life of her kindred, Thingol demanded of Beren a Silmaril—a gem of untold worth and terrible doom—as the price for Lúthien's hand.

            "Thenceforth Thingol and his kingdom were ensnared by the Doom of the Noldor, for all who sought to gain or keep one of the Silmarils wrought by Fëanor son of Finwë was destined only for sorrow and ruin.  The Silmaril came to Thingol's kingdom, and Lúthien was wedded to Beren.  Then did the Jewel of Fëanor begin to weave its curse about the realm of Doriath; Thingol became enamored of it, and was ever more covetous of its light and beauty.  He bade Dwarves of Nogrod to set the Silmaril in the Nauglamír."  

            "The Nauglamír!" Gimli exclaimed.  "At last here is something of which I have heard many tales recounted.  Pray tell, if it is not too much nuisance, how did the King of the Elves in Doriath come to possess the Necklace of the Dwarves?"

            "It was given him by Húrin Galdor's son, who retrieved it from the hoard of Glaurung the dragon," Celeborn explained patiently.  "The craftsmen of Nogrod were eager to do as Thingol asked, for they wished to possess the great treasure to be produced of two such grand articles.  When they had finished their labors, Thingol stood among them and made to fasten it about his neck; but the Dwarves stayed his hand and demanded that he cede the Nauglamir and Silmaril to them, for the Necklace had been formed by their fathers and given to Finrod Felagund, who was slain in the defense of Beren."

            The Lord of Lórien's eyes were mournful as he gazed into the trees of his grove, and the terrible grief written in them drove a dagger through Gimli's own heart.  "Thingol refused to yield to them, and said many shameful words to them, bidding them to depart his realm at once.  In their wrath at his scorn and denial, the craftsmen there slew Thingol King of Doriath, and fled with the treasure they had stained with his blood.  The Dwarves were captured and slain ere they could escape the kingdom, however, and so the Nauglamír and the Silmaril with it were returned to Melian—but it was little comfort to her, for Elwë Singollo lay dead in his tomb.  Thereafter she withdrew her protective power from his realm, and she passed over the Sea to her home in the West.  The Dwarves of Nogrod, learning of the deaths of their kinsmen in the dwelling of the Elves, arose in great wrath, believing that the slayings had been but an act of malice commanded by the King of Doriath.  They marched from their home in the Ered Luin, and assailed the hitherto impenetrable woods of Thingol's domain."

            Then Celeborn's voice lowered, and became rough with remembered pain.  "I was there, Gimli.  For I was a kinsman to Thingol, a prince of the realm; and I spent my days as a forester, tending the saplings and listening to the murmurs of the ancient trees.  Under those trees was I born; there I met Galadriel of the Noldor, daughter of Finarfin, and we were wed beneath a mighty beech that I had planted myself many years before.  Our daughter Celebrían was birthed in the shelter of Thingol's abode.  But on the day of the attack of the Dwarves from Nogrod, I was compelled to witness the ruin of war upon the woodland of my home."  The Elven lord closed his eyes briefly, and the weight of the ages seemed to descend upon him in that moment.  "So many were slain," he whispered.  "Elves and Dwarves alike fell in multitudes.  We were driven back, and I was wounded unto death by a Dwarven-crafted spear.  It was solely the love and ministration of Galadriel that preserved my life that day.  But the great underground city of Menegroth was overrun and ransacked, and Doriath was never again the haven of old."

            Gimli was silent.  The pain he heard in Celeborn's whisper struck him deeply, and he was suddenly aware of the guilt in his heart.  There was no apology to be made, for none would suffice.  He wondered at Celeborn's willingness to allow a Dwarf to enter his own realm, and then to remain for an extended period.  He dropped his gaze to the ground, unable to bear the grief he glimpsed etched in the Lord of the Wood's features.

            A light touch alighted on Gimli's shoulder, startling him.  "Nay, Master Gimli," Celeborn said softly, "the dishonor is not yours to bear; nor should remorse plague you.  Long did my heart dwell resentfully on the violence done by those of Nogrod, and for many ages I harbored a loathing of your folk."  He paused.  "But no longer.  The persistent goodness of one individual may alter the judgments of a bitter heart.  This you have done, Gimli son of Glóin."

            Gimli met the Elven lord's gaze once more, scarcely able to comprehend.  Celeborn's face was at peace, free of the anguish that had been so plain but a moment before.  His archaic silver eyes fixed on the Dwarf, and there was no accusation to be found in their depths.  "You have shown me the purest spirit of your people," Celeborn said gently.  "When you professed your willingness to remain in the Golden Wood alone among Elves solely for the sake of Legolas, my heart was moved beyond words.  I saw the very soul of Finrod Felagund in your speech, for he sacrificed his own life to preserve Beren his friend—and I believe you would do the same for any you cherish so.  And in that moment, I knew that I must make amends for the undue aversion with which I regarded your people for so long a time."

            Gimli stared at Celeborn, dazed by all that he had heard.  When he found his voice, he asked hesitantly, "Why did you allow me entrance to your realm when first we arrived at your borders, my Lord, if such pain was yours on account of my people?"

            "The Lady at times is possessed of greater foresight than I," Celeborn replied with a slight smile.  "It was by her will that you passed beyond the border."  Then, as though a struck by a sudden remembrance, the Lord of Lórien gave a slight laugh.  "I had not thought to tell you, Gimli, but when you asked Galadriel for a strand of her hair I was very nearly strangled by shock."

            "As was I, when she consented," Gimli said with a hesitant tinge of laughter to his own tone.  "I had not dared to hope that she would do so.  Your Lady is truly marvelous, Lord Celeborn, the fairest and kindest of all who walk the earth."

            "I share that conviction in full measure," Celeborn agreed, his voice rich with affection.  The warmth in his tone served to ward off what chill there might have been in the wintry silver light flowing from the lamps.  "I tell you truthfully, Gimli, that of all your deeds thus far, I regard your rescue of young Nimfëalórien most highly.  In doing so, you spared my beloved what further grief would have befallen her had she learned that he was slain.  Galadriel has always been fond of those young ones who are possessed of curious minds and spirited ambitions.  Nimfëalórien is one such youngling."  The Elven lord drew himself upright then, and he said, "Now that you have heard my words and seen my heart, Gimli, I have one last gift to bestow."

            "But you have already given so much, my Lord, surely no more is required," Gimli protested.

            "Gimli," Celeborn said quietly, allaying the Dwarf's mild objection.  "I ask you to accept this as a symbol of the friendship between the Lord of the Elves of Lórien and an excellent Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain."  When Gimli said nothing more, but merely nodded his assent, Celeborn took up the white-bound object yet lying atop his lap.  He then drew aside the concealing cloth and placed the item in Gimli's hands.

            It was a hatchet, beautifully wrought in Elven-steel that glinted like the silver leaves of the _tithen celebyrn_ all around.  The blade was a crescent, exceedingly deadly, for Elven blades were the keenest of all those in Middle-earth.  Etched into the sturdy haft of the weapon were delicate Elvish runes.  But it was the carving on the head that most captured Gimli's notice.  Rendered in silvery engravement was the emblem of Durin's Folk: an anvil and hammer overshadowed by a crown set with seven stars of eight rays each.  On the opposing side of the blade was a finely carven tree with twining branches; surely the image of one of Celeborn's silver trees.  The hatchet was perfectly balanced, and light to wield, after the manner of all Elven-crafted weapons.  And with it was a sturdy sheath, also engraved with the emblems and runes.

            "It is beautiful," Gimli said, holding the Elf-lord's gift as one might a precious gem—touching as little of its surface as possible so as to see as much of its sheen as possible.  "My deepest gratitude is yours, my Lord," he said sincerely.

            "The script on the haft reads thusly: 'May evil meet its swift end at the edge of this blade, for its bearer is Gimli son of Glóin, a Dwarf of Erebor and friend to the Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien,'" Celeborn explained.  His gaze remained kind, but his voice became grave.  "Use this gift well, Gimli."

            "I shall, my Lord, I assure you," the Dwarf replied solemnly.  

            Celeborn nodded slowly, satisfied with the response.  He stood, as did Gimli.  "Then our dealings at present are finished," he said.  "I shall take you back to your _flet_, for the night is wearing, and tomorrow the Council will again be called; the Lady has looked into her Mirror, and we have deemed what counsel seems sound."  The Elf-lord paused.  "I thank you, Gimli, for hearing me tonight," he said softly.  

            Gimli bowed slightly.  "And I thank you for considering me worthy to listen," he answered.    

            With that, the two walked back the way they had come, through the silent ranks of silver trees, and out into the deep shadows of evening.  And in all the rest of his years, in all his journeys and doings throughout his life, Gimli would never forget that night in Lórien when an Elven lord made peace with him and all his kindred.

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End of Chapter Sixteen.  

**Name Notes: **

1) _Mirmíthuial_ (Elf of Mirkwood, rider of Thranduil's charge, bore the wounded Nimfëalórien to Caras Galadhon) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "jewel of gray twilight."  He was not named in the chapter he actually appeared in (chapter 14).

2) _Harmatar_ (Elf of Lórien, councilor who gave Lessulma directions) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "father's treasure."  

3) _Taurëmíredil_ (Elf of Mirkwood, son and eldest child of Thranduil, heir to the throne) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "forest-jewel-lover."  Thranduil may have named his son as such because of his reputation as a riches-hoarding/tree-neglecting lout.  Notice that the forest is mentioned first, as if to indicate that the woods indeed hold precedence over riches in the King's mind.

**Note:** This chapter contains material drawn from both "The Silmarillion" and "Unfinished Tales."  Celeborn's _tithen celebyrn are entirely my creations.  _

Thanks for reading, and please review!


	17. Junctures, Part 1

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Seventeen**

**Summary: If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, "The Languages of Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website. **

**Replies to reviews:**

Irena: Hello, and welcome to "The Weeping Wraith!"  I'm glad you decided to start reading my little venture here; I hope you continue to enjoy it!  And hey, I am so happy to make the acquaintance of another rabid Treehugger fan!  As to your questions…well, we shall just have to wait and see whether Legolas can be salvaged.  His is just one sad tale among many that will be told before the end.  (evil snicker)  All shall be revealed in due time, I assure you.  In the meantime, keep reading, and thanks for the review!  :)

Treehugger: (excited squeal from Katharine) A big ol' honkin' review!  Yay!  Thank you, _nin__ mellon, you made my day with that whopping post on the board!  First of all, let me give you a huge send-up for "In the Hall of the Woodland King"—it's an absolute scream!!  And the sequel is becoming an increasing health problem for me (what with all the asphyxiation and whatnot; you know what I'm talking about).  Also, the wine-for-Elrond enchilada is spicy indeed—I like!  :)  I'm glad you enjoyed my other small ventures during the interval between chapters of TWW.  I'm pleased to say that your patience is finally rewarded!  _

alliwantisanelfforchristmas: Hi, and welcome!  I'm so pleased you're enjoying "The Weeping Wraith," and you're welcome about the missing "Legolas-on-the-bank-of-the-River" scene.  I sorely missed that in the movie, as well!  May I say that your pen name is sweet?  Your pen name is sweet!  Please, stick around and keep reading (and reviewing)!  There is much to come…heh heh heh…

Dangerously Cheezy: _Ai Valar, nin mellon, but you are such a wonderful sounding board!  (moan)  But you're LEAVING me!!  Moving far, far away…ah well, email and IM are useful in such circumstances.  Nothing is the same as face-to-face insanity, though, as I'm sure you would agree.  I have your sibling to torment now…heh heh heh…_

Elowyn Telcontar: Ah, m'dear, so glad you're around.  Unlike _some people that we know…just messing.  Anyhoo, I'm pleased you're continuing to enjoy my little venture here.  Also, I like the publicity you're giving me among your little cohorts!  Again I say: you must get together and post something!_

Raen: (squeal)  My dear friend, you return!  I was worried when several chapters went by without garnering a peep from my previously most faithful reviewer!  I understand about the whole life-knocking-ya-upside-the-head thing, though; that's what happened between the postings of chapters 16 and 17, much to my chagrin.  I'm glad you're back!  Also glad you enjoyed chapter 16…yeah, I'm rather jealous of Gimli, too, getting to hang out with the Elves and all that (pout).  Thanks for returning, and I hope you stick around!  There is much to write before I am finished…

**Random note: My sincerest apologies for the extreme tardiness of this posting!  I went out of town for a week, and upon my return I was assailed by a horde of fierce plotbunnies which gave rise to a humor piece and the start of the Uncommon Tales series.  I've also gone back and fixed formatting on stuff, etc.**

Now, finally, on with the tale…

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In beauty and progression, the daybreak was akin to every other.  Anor's dawning beams stained the horizon with a rosy glow, drawing aside the dark curtains of night and swiftly bathing the land in warm gold.  The little flowers peeked out from beneath their delicate bonnets to drink in what nourishing shafts of light they could; as did their massive elders, the flaxen-crowned mallorns, which spread their boughs and unfurled their leaves in eager response to the Sun's first brilliant rays.  The gray-backed deer rose from their slumber and stretched their nimble legs.  Countless evening birds tucked their heads beneath their wings for the day's rest, just as the day birds twittered their cheerful farewells to the evening.  The Elves who dwelt beneath Lothlórien's golden canopy blinked away their dreams and arose from their beds, glad for the morning's light.  According to the criteria of most of the Wood's denizens, it was quite a usual sunrise.

But there were some for whom the dawn was utterly singular.  The Guardians at the northern and eastern boundaries of Lórien kept their vigil in strangely tense silence.  Their numbers had been doubled, and so twofold were the eyes that beheld the steady breeze carrying the last wisps of smoke from the blackened mound beyond the Golden Wood's border—all that remained of the defeated force of the Enemy that had assailed the forest but four days past.  The shattered, stinking corpses of the Orcs had been hauled from beneath the mallorns and deposited in a large heap, whereafter they had been unceremoniously burned to ashes, together with their black banners, weapons, and armor.  Thus divested of the foul refuse of battle, the air of Lórien had begun to freshen once more.  Yet this was of little comfort to the bereaved family of the last slain Elven warrior, as they mournfully consigned their kin's departed soul to the quiet halls of Mandos.  Indeed, many a troubled whisper was heard among the branches; for though the victory of days past had been of great consequence, there was little doubt that the Enemy would strike again.

Such doom-laden musing, however, had no place in the discourse of three breakfasting friends.  Nimfëalórien and Líssulma had met with Gimli in their customary place, the former replete with curiosity as to the Dwarf's dealings with Lord Celeborn the previous night.  Líssulma, too, had learned of Gimli's meeting with the Elf-lord, and though her eyes sparkled questioningly, she did not at first press the Dwarf for answers.  Their keen vision noted the carefully scribed sheath at Gimli's belt almost before they had spoken their greetings, however, and neither could quite restrain themselves upon sighting the clearly new-wrought weapon.

"_Ai Valar, Gimli, that is of Lórien make!" Nimfëalórien exclaimed._

            "It bears the insignia of Lord Celeborn himself," Líssulma murmured wonderingly.  She flicked her wide-set gaze up to meet Gimli's.  "Was it made specially for you, Gimli?"

            The Dwarf smiled at them, remembering his conversation with the Lord of Lórien.  "Yes, my lady, it was."  He unfastened the simple strap that bound the hatchet within its casing when it was not in use, then brought the weapon out and turned it so that the morning's gentle rays caressed the blade's glimmering edge.  The runes etched in the haft flickered and shone, as did the carven emblems of Durin's Folk upon the flat of the blade.  Nimfëalórien and Líssulma gave soft gasps of amazement at its beauty.

            Gimli saw the delight in their eyes, and he laughed deeply.  It occurred to him that he had not laughed so satisfyingly for quite some time; indeed, the last occasion had been in the company of Legolas.  "Lord Celeborn presented it to me yesterevening," he said.  

            "Did my Lord give cause for such a gift?  What did you speak of with him?" Nimfëalórien asked. 

Gimli had expected his friends' curiosity, but he did not think it his place to reveal Celeborn's heart without his knowledge or consent.  "The Lord Celeborn wished to discuss a matter of importance with me," he answered.  "More than that I cannot say, for I would not betray a confidence."

At that, Nimfëalórien gave a sigh and sat down at the table, joining Líssulma.  "I would hardly ask you to do so, friend Dwarf, but my curiosity bodes to consume me."

"What is that, graven upon the blade's opposing side?" Líssulma asked as Gimli took his own seat across from the two Elves. 

Gimli turned the hatchet so that the reverse face was exposed to the morning light.  "It is a silver tree, Líssulma," he said, and in his tone there was a hint of perplexity.  "Have you not seen its ilk before?"

            Both Nimfëalórien and Líssulma denied any such encounter.  The former looked on Gimli with renewed wonder in his gray gaze.  "Lord Celeborn holds you in high regard, friend Gimli," he said softly.  "That is a gift far outweighing any other to be given."

            "Well do I know it, Nimfëalórien," Gimli answered solemnly.  "And I hold your Lord in highest esteem, as well as his cherished Lady."  

            "When do you expect they will summon the council and convey their judgment to King Thranduil?" Líssulma asked.

            "Lord Celeborn told me yesterevening that the council was to be called today," Gimli replied.

            The lady's gentle visage saddened slightly.  "Then you shall take your leave of these woods soon?"

            "I believe so, my lady, although I do not relish the necessity of bidding you farewell," Gimli told her.  "Nor do I wish to abandon our friendship, Nimfëalórien.  But I must do as I have sworn to do, and that is to seek the deliverance of my friend Legolas, who yet suffers in the foul grasp of the traitor Saruman."

            "It is no abandonment, Gimli," Nimfëalórien responded, "but merely an interlude.  I would not keep you from your quest in your friend's hour of need."

            "Nor would I," Líssulma agreed.  "I ask only this, Master Gimli: that you make some effort to meet with us again ere you pass into the sleep of mortals."

            "Done, my lady, with certainty," Gimli assured her.  He placed his hatchet back into its sheath and secured its binding once more.  "Come now, we are speaking as though one of my feet is already beyond the Wood's boundary, and I am still sitting here with you!"  

            While he was speaking, a messenger clothed in gray and white approached with silent steps.  The slender Elf bowed to the three seated at the table, then spoke.  "My lords and lady, the council has been summoned to the Hall.  Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel request Master Gimli's presence without delay."

            "Thank you, Lintefanëar," Líssulma said, rising to her feet.  "By your leave, I shall escort Master Gimli to the Hall myself."

            "Of course, my lady," the Elven messenger said.  With a slight bow, he turned and departed as swiftly as he had come.

            "By the Great Hammer," Gimli muttered, shaking his head and standing from the table.  "I spoke much too quickly, it seems.  I did not expect they would call for me so early.  Perhaps one of my feet is nearer to your border than any should like to think."

            "Mayhap," Nimfëalórien said.  He rose from the table.  "I would like very much to accompany you both to the Hall, but my sisters asked me to aid them in the fletching of arrows today, and I would prefer to do so now, while the day is yet young.  Perhaps you will dine with my family tonight, Gimli?  And Líssulma as well?"  

            "I would be honored," Gimli replied.  Líssulma echoed the sentiment, and Gimli chose to overlook the slight pink tinge that rose in Nimfëalórien's cheeks when the lady smiled at him.      

            "You and I shall breakfast when the council is disbanded, it seems," Líssulma told Gimli. "But come, the day is aging, and the Lord and Lady await our arrival." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            The Hall of Lórien was filled with a low murmuring, as was the norm, for there were many in the assemblage of Elven councilors gathered there.  Tall, lean folk they were, with bright eyes and grave speech.  Most granted nods of acknowledgement to Gimli as he entered the chamber.  Líssulma guided Gimli to his place at Lady Galadriel's left.  Then, with a smile and a touch at Gimli's shoulder, she departed, bowing to the Lord and Lady as she went.

            Celeborn and Galadriel were seated at the center of the softly-lit chamber, as was their custom.  The Lady's greeting nod was as serene and welcoming as it had always been, but in Celeborn's gaze there was a warmth that had but newly emerged.  Gimli bowed to them in return, glad to have once more been placed so near to the sovereigns of Lothlórien, for he was afforded a clear view of the proceedings, and also of the Lady's fair countenance.    

Thranduil of Mirkwood stood before the chairs of Celeborn and Galadriel, slightly to the right of the Lord of Lórien.  The Elvenking appeared much as he had some days before, tall and straight, but with raiment of deepest scarlet and green.  His cloak was flung back over his shoulders, and his sword gleamed at his side.  He had been speaking in low tones with Hithílion, but when the two noticed that Gimli had arrived, they ceased their dialogue, and the King's advisor stepped back to join the councilors of Lórien.  Hithílion pointedly ignored Gimli, a practice which was beginning to grate on the Dwarf—discourtesy was endurable, but the Elven counselor's refusal to acknowledge Gimli's very existence was quite insulting.  Thranduil, however, looked the Dwarf straight in the eyes and gave him a solemn nod of salutation.  As he had done for the Lord and Lady, Gimli responded with a bow.

            "Let us begin," Celeborn said, and though his voice was not loud, it cut through the low hum of conversation, and silence fell in the chamber.  When all eyes had turned to the Elf-lord, he continued, "Thranduil Oropherion, the Lady and I have thought long on your query, and Galadriel has consulted her Mirror for further guidance.  Hence, we have settled upon the counsel that we deem best.  Do you yet wish to know our thinking on this?"

            "Yes, my Lord, I do," Thranduil replied with certainty.  

            Celeborn nodded once, his countenance at once grave and reflective.  "Very well.  Many years have I known you, son of Oropher; thus, I caution you to hear me well, for my words are sincere.  The blood of your father flows thick in your veins, and with it courses strength surpassing that of many a lord that yet dwells upon these shores.  You favor forthright confrontation over trickery and deceit, and your valor in warfare is known to nearly all assembled here."  The Lord of the Wood's silvered gaze pierced through the cool air in the chamber as he spoke, fixing inexorably upon Thranduil's startled visage.  Celeborn continued, "These traits serve you well, Thranduil, for I daresay that it is because of your fortitude that the Woodland Realm has flourished thus far."

            "Such attributes are to be lauded," Galadriel added solemnly, "but many a good aspect may be turned amiss.  Take care that your pride does not lead you astray!  For the path you will walk veers in many directions, and if even once you are swayed by arrogance, ruin will consume you and those who may follow in your steps."

            Gimli watched Thranduil's expression closely.  The Elvenking's features had rippled with great surprise at Celeborn's unexpected praise, but he grew sober once more as Galadriel spoke.  "What, then, is your counsel, Lord and Lady of Lothlórien?" he asked.

            "Gather those warriors in your company and depart at once for Nan Curunír, the Wizard's Vale," Celeborn answered, irrefutably calm.  "Therein lies the Ring of Isengard, and at its heart stands Orthanc, the stronghold of Saruman."  The Elf-lord's bright eyes narrowed perceptively.  "I have said that you prefer direct altercation with your foes, Thranduil.  If Legolas truly languishes within the tower at Isengard, as has been supposed, then do you not wish to give open challenge to the traitor that holds him captive?"

            Cold fury lanced through the Elvenking's grim expression, and Gimli wondered if Celeborn's words had been devised specifically to incite such an effect   "I confess, Lord Celeborn, you have named that prospect for which I yearn," Thranduil replied steadily.  Belying his calm tone, however, suppressed anger simmered in his gaze.  "Great though Saruman once was, he has become but a single talon upon the black hand of the Dark One; and I, for my part, should very much like to defy the traitor's designs to his very face."  The Elven lord's expression furrowed then, and he cast a somewhat perplexed glance at the sovereigns of Lórien, adding, "Yet though such a stroke would greatly satisfy me, I do not believe it would bring freedom for my Legolas."  

            "I deem you judge rightly in that matter," Galadriel said approvingly, "but Celeborn has said only that such a prospect may be set before you, and not that it is prudent or certain."  She sighed, and continued, "Nevertheless, my heart warns of an impending juncture, one that may weigh heavily in the war to come.  Upon the road to Isengard lies your course, son of Oropher; but I caution you, heed my warnings well!"

            The Elvenking peered at the Lord and Lady from beneath drawn brows, and in his gaze there was a wealth of confusion.  "Even now I heed them, Lady," he replied, "and as I remember, we agreed that to approach Isengard with so little force of arms would be rash and ill-advised.  I have but one hundred forty in my company," and he glanced at Gimli, "plus one more gained in this very Wood; and though they are valiant and skilled, they are hardly an army, and certainly cannot hope to overpower the hordes of Isengard.  I will not needlessly imperil the lives of my warriors for the sake of trading fruitless wordplay with Saruman."

            "That is well, for we would not have you do so," the Lady said gravely.  "Nor do we intend that you ride to your destruction against the foe.  Saruman has long sown the seeds of his own defeat, and those seeds are being brought to fruition.  The light of the Mirror has shown forces of old at work in the deep and hidden places of the earth, and they do not take kindly to betrayal.  I assure you, Thranduil, the end of Curunír's dominion draws nigh."  Galadriel's clear voice rang out, as though to send her words soaring to Saruman's very ears:  "Isengard will fall."

            No one spoke for a time.  Gimli felt a thrill of awe at the Lady's assertion.  He could hardly imagine what force could be rousing with such might as to overthrow the bastion of a wizard; moreover, one who wielded as much raw power as did Gandalf the White.  Thranduil did not speak, but a ruthless smile tugged at his lips as he envisioned the downfall of the traitor who had dared to keep a prince of Mirkwood captive.  Gimli found he shared the Elvenking's vengeful delight, and when he glanced at Hithílion he was mildly pleased to see the advisor's face lit with a similar dark satisfaction.

            Celeborn broke the silence, his voice smooth and flowing through the tension.  "We bear you no ill bidding, son of Oropher.  The path will be clear in due time.  We can only advise your way so far, and no further; yet what we have said, we hold to."

            Thranduil paused, his smile fading, and another heavy silence reigned in the chamber.  At length the Elf-lord nodded, slowly and deliberately, and his countenance at last conveyed acceptance.  "Then, as you say, I shall depart for Isengard on the morrow, ere the Sun climbs the sky," he stated decisively.  He flicked his gaze up to meet Celeborn's, a trace of a shrewd smile returning to his fair face.  "And we shall see what _direct altercations I may rouse in the Wizard's Vale."_

            The Lord of Lórien did not smile, but his approval was evident.  "Quite a number, I imagine," he replied.  "I shall arrange for word of your departure to be sent to Taurëmíredil and Míthgilhiri.  Your eldest children must now prepare to contend with the forces of Dol Guldur, for the Enemy will surely concentrate much of his effort upon the Greenwood."

            Thranduil's expression darkened, and he cast a grim glance at Hithílion.  "Taurëmíredil is trustworthy in this," the Elvenking said.  "I have trained him in the ways of both war and peace.  He will hold."

            "Too, he has the support of his sister," Galadriel remarked.  "They are of a kind, your two eldest.  A formidable defense against assault."

            "Indeed," Thranduil said.  He drew himself up, his golden locks glinting in the soft light.  "If there is nothing more, my Lord and Lady, I must see to the arrangements for our parting tomorrow morn." 

            Galadriel held up a slender finger in a staying gesture.  "I have but one further word of caution, and then we shall adjourn.  Though haste is in your favor, you must not pass through the forest of Fangorn.  A great wrath is stirring there, and to disturb it would be most unwise."

            If Thranduil was as mystified by the Lady's words as was Gimli, the Elvenking did not show it.  He merely raised one eyebrow and solemnly nodded, and the Lord and Lady of Lórien stood to dismiss the Council.  Gimli planted the hilt of his axe on the flooring and rested his hands upon the top rims of its sharpened head.  He felt a strange relief, for the following morning would bring the initiation of the task to which he had set himself.  By his reckoning, three weeks had passed since Legolas' fall on the bank of the River, and he was razor-keen to begin taking action on his friend's behalf.  Yet Gimli's mind returned to the faint melancholy in Líssulma's gaze as she had spoken of his imminent departure, and his elation was dimmed as he realized that he would share his final meal with his two friends in the coming evening.  He had come to value them dearly for their kindness and goodwill toward him.

Of a sudden, Thranduil appeared before Gimli.  The Elvenking gazed down at the Dwarf impassively, a distant light in his gray gaze, and without prelude he asked, "Do you yet hold to your pledge of service, Master Gimli?"

            Gimli stood and gave a small bow, stifling his immediate pique and keeping his voice utterly composed.  "A Dwarf does not break his vow, my lord Thranduil," he replied.  "I have given my word to lend whatever aid I may in the rescue of Legolas, and to that I hold."

            There was a flash in the Elf-lord's flinty eyes, but it was quelled too swiftly for Gimli to discern its meaning.  "Indeed," Thranduil said evenly.  "You are to join my company this eve, then, for we will depart ere the dawn breaks.  Come to my encampment when the Sun descends to the horizon, for there are many things we must discuss before the morrow."

"Certainly, my lord," Gimli answered.  He would have to make certain the dinner at Nimfëalórien's home did not cause him to be late; the constraint of time rankled on the Dwarf, but he saw little to be done about it.  

Thranduil gave a curt nod, then turned away in a swirl of green cloak and left the Dwarf standing in the swiftly emptying hall.  Hithílion followed his king, affording Gimli little more than a disdainful glance as he passed.  The councilors of Lórien were quickly filing out, and the hum of their conversation lingered long in the air.  Gimli, however, was unhurried in his steps, as his mind was preoccupied with contemplations of the days to come.  He had sensed a chill reception beneath Thranduil's civil greeting and speech; and Hithílion had disliked the Dwarf from their first meeting.  The coming journey to Isengard seemed less appealing with every frosty glance Gimli received from the Elves of Mirkwood.  He sighed, again wondering how Legolas had come to be of such agreeable temperament.

So deep in his musings was he that Gimli looked up in startlement when his name was spoken.  Galadriel stood nearby, with Celeborn at her side.  Their gazes were keenly perceptive, yet remarkably gentle.  When the Lady saw that she had garnered the Dwarf's attention, she continued in a soft tone, "You are troubled by thoughts of the path that leads from this Wood, Master Gimli."     

            Gimli saw no purpose in denying that which she was plainly aware of.  "Yes, my Lady, you speak the truth," he said.  "I go with a glad heart, for the burden of grief grows heavier with each day that Legolas yet remains within Saruman's foul grasp.  But with my departure comes another sundering of friends; and though this parting is not so bitter as that which befell my dear friend and I on the bank of the River, it is still sour to the heart."

            "Such is the nature of pursuits akin to yours," Celeborn remarked solemnly.  "In the course of any journey, friends are made and unmade; and still others are lost, but are perhaps recovered in time."

            "Cherish the friendships that have blossomed during your time here, Gimli, for even the memories of such bonds hold power," Galadriel counseled.  "Treasure also the wisdom you have gained, for temperance will be a valuable asset in your dealings with the king of Mirkwood."

            Gimli gave a short, dour laugh.  "Yes, my Lady, I have concluded as much.  You are both possessed of great forbearance, indeed; I had not imagined that any were capable of such impudence when speaking to you."  Gimli well remembered Thranduil's repressed belligerence during his dialogue with the sovereigns of Lórien some days past, and the Dwarf took less kindly to the memory each time he recalled it.

            Celeborn sighed, but his expression remained lenient.  "Few are so bold, Glóin's son, in that you deem rightly.  But Thranduil springs from a lineage of prideful, willful Elves.  The Lady and I knew his father, Oropher of Lindon.  Never has there been a more intractable Elf, excepting perhaps his son; for Oropher instilled every trace of his own tenacity into Thranduil, and more besides, for he foresaw that his son would come into a station of great authority."

            "Is not great restraint necessary when one commands such authority?" Gimli asked, no less riled at the Elvenking's disrespect toward the Lady.

            "Restraint and courtesy are two separate affairs to Thranduil's mind," Galadriel said softly.  "He dislikes and distrusts your folk, and his manner bespeaks as such.  Yet know this, Gimli: Lord Celeborn was not speaking idly when he commended the king of Mirkwood.  A fell shadow has descended upon that realm in the past ages, and only one with resolve forged of iron could have withstood it.  Thranduil and his family hold much sway over the forest in which they reign; lacking their influence, the Woodland Realm would have been plunged into Shadow long ago."

            Gimli nodded his understanding.  "One question yet plagues me, my Lord and Lady.  I have seen that King Thranduil is of a fairly severe bearing.  Why then is Legolas not so inflexible?—for I have seen no traces of his father's temperament within my friend's manner."

            "Legolas is young in the sight of the Elves, and he is not yet weary of the world and its ills," Celeborn told him gravely.  The Elf-lord's expression softened as he continued, "Too, Legolas and his sister Lelemir bear much of their mother's appearance and temperament.  Mirkwood's queen was customarily as mild as her husband was stern, though she was a fierce adversary when need arose."

            "That is more akin to Legolas' manner," Gimli observed with a smile of fond recollection.  His humor faded, however, as he absorbed the full inflections in the Lord of Lórien's words.  "But you speak as though his mother is no longer at her king's side."

            Galadriel's smile was laden with sorrow.  "She is not, for she was slain in an ambush set by Orcs soon following Legolas' birth.  She was Astalaewen, oft hailed as Luiniglin the Blue-eyed; Queen of the Woodland Realm and beloved wife of Thranduil."  The Lady of Lórien leveled a piercing gaze upon Gimli.  "Far beneath his abrasive manner, Gimli, Thranduil's heart bleeds for his son.  Do not judge him too harshly.  He is headstrong and quick to temper at times, and perhaps too fond of riches, but he is also a wise ruler and affectionate father."  Galadriel's gaze eased then, and she granted the Dwarf a gentle smile.  "You may indeed clash on many matters, Lock-bearer, but you and Thranduil are bound in your common desire to rescue Legolas.  Mirkwood's king distrusts your folk, it is true; yet many a suspicion may be laid to rest by kindness, as you have demonstrated in the course of days past."

            Celeborn's silver eyes twinkled at that statement.  "Indeed, dear wife, indeed," he murmured.  He glanced at the arched doorway, then back at Gimli.  "I believe your friend and guide awaits your company, Master Gimli.  The Lady and I shall see you off tomorrow morn.  Go and make your farewells ere the Sun descends."

            Gimli bowed deeply, grateful for their patience and encouragement.  "I thank you, my Lord and Lady, for your immeasurable kindnesses.  Truly, I shall never forget them."

            "Nor shall we fail to remember your faithfulness, Gimli son of Glóin," Celeborn replied.  The sovereigns of Lórien then inclined their heads in gracious dismissal.  Gimli bowed slightly, then turned and exited the Hall.

            As Lord Celeborn had said, Líssulma stood just beyond the arch of the entrance.  Her silver tresses flowed over her shoulders and framed her smiling face.  Her raiment was of pale blue, with deeper blues and indigo at the sleeves and neckline.  The Sun's rays trickled through the mallorn boughs above, growing in intensity as the fiery disc ascended along its path in the sky, and the golden beams played across Líssulma's silver hair like delicate fingers over a harp.  Gimli noted, not for the first time, that Líssulma was indeed a lovely maiden; he smiled to remember his conversation with Nimfëalórien concerning the lady, and hoped that some good might come of the young Elf's interest in the Lady of the Wood's handmaiden.

            "You are a welcome sight, Líssulma," Gimli told her in greeting.  

            "As are you, Master Gimli.  I had begun to think that the Lord and Lady were going to keep you for the remainder of the day," Líssulma jested.  Her smile, however, was considerably dimmer as she asked, "Tell me, Gimli, when will you depart these woods?"

            The Dwarf met her wide-set gaze, and his own smile faded behind his beard.  "Tomorrow morn, lady, before the Sun rises in the east."

            Líssulma nodded slowly, her countenance shadowed.  "Then we have but a little time left in which to exchange what words we will.  Perhaps we ought to go to Nimfëalórien without tarrying."

            "That is my thinking, Líssulma, for I am to join King Thranduil's company this evening when the Sun touches the horizon," Gimli said.

            "Lady Tinlórewen will not expect us for dinner until then," Líssulma remarked soberly.  "Come, we will take our own breakfast, and afterward we shall go to Nimfëalórien's home and convey these tidings."  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Nimfëalórien was not at his home when Gimli and Líssulma arrived.  Auburn-haired Lady Tinlórewen greeted them with surprised delight, however, and quickly ushered them in.  "I had not expected guests until this evening," she said, directing the two to sit in delicately carved chairs placed in what Gimli supposed was the family's gathering room.  It was not a large space, but in the fashion of the Elves it was luminous and well-designed.  Gimli realized that Nimfëalórien's home was of a build similar to a large _flet, except that the dwelling was divided into separate rooms by light but opaque wooden latticework.  The same woven barrier also enclosed most of the tree-bound abode, excepting an open balcony that wrapped all the way around the home.  The lattice was interlaced with the same incandescent vines as were to be found in Gimli's own borrowed __flet, lighting each room with a soft golden glow.  _

            "Nimfëalórien has taken his sisters to fletch arrows and practice their skills," Tinlórewen told her visitors, giving to each a glass of sweet red juice wrung from a fruit common to the Wood.  She then sat down opposite them, folding her long frame into the chair with the practiced grace of one accustomed to such motions.  "I, however, am glad of your company.  Lómeldarion has gone to assist in the building of a home for a couple but recently joined in marriage."

            Líssulma's smile matched Tinlórewen's in its brilliance.  "Ah, then Elfarothion and Analossë have decided to make their dwelling in the City?" 

            "Yes," the lady of the house replied, delight humming in her tone, "though Elfarothion has spoken of taking his wife to live in Lindon after some years have passed."

            "Lindon?" Líssulma returned, surprised.  "Does his family have relations dwelling in that land?"

            Gimli comprehended little of the ensuing exchange, for the two women spoke of persons and places that he knew not.  They continued to converse, politely speaking Westron so as not to completely exclude their male companion; however, the Dwarf grasped fairly quickly that he was quite out of his element.  He imagined that Nimfëalórien would make some sort of dry remark about _ensnarements were he present—but, to Gimli's mild misfortune, his friend was nowhere to be seen.  Gimli struggled to think of an excuse to leave the ladies to their discussion, but he could find none that would not seem inexcusably rude._

            "Mother, Líssulma, do you not see how Master Gimli wilts beneath the air of gossip in this room?" came a laughing voice from the doorway.  Nimfëalórien strode in with a merry grin, followed by a pair of Elven girls clutching bows and quivers.

            Gimli harrumphed with mock indignation as he stood.  "Dwarves do not _wilt, Master Elf."_

            Tinlórewen gave a bright laugh and rose to embrace her children.  Líssulma, however, cast a dismayed glance at Gimli, saying, "Oh, Gimli, I did not intend to neglect you so!  I did not realize…"

            The Dwarf held up a mollifying hand.  "Think nothing of it, dear lady."

            "Every man must be exposed to at least one serving of womanly conversation," Tinlórewen announced.  "It teaches them to let the ladies alone when they are occupied with such affairs."

            Nimfëalórien leaned down next to Gimli, muttering, "Did we not speak of maidenly ensnarement, Gimli?  Their conversations, I believe, are the true perils to be met with."

            The remark garnered a hearty laugh from the Dwarf and imperious glares from the ladies, including the two young girls, who imitated their mother's withering frown as best they could.  Much of their mirth, however, was drained when Gimli soberly explained his reason for arriving so early.  Tinlórewen insisted that he share the afternoon meal with them, since King Thranduil's instruction had effectively supplanted Gimli's intention to join his friends for the evening.  Therefore, Gimli passed much of the afternoon in their company, enjoying the light meal and the lighter dialogue.  Not once did the conversation turn to the Dwarf's impending departure, for all wished to stave off melancholic thoughts until their proper time.  

            Lord Lómeldarion returned as the Sun's leaf-filtered beams began to take on a faint reddish hue.  The Elf-lord was surprised to find his guests already present, but he was not displeased.  He had begun to regard Gimli with respect, if not favor, and was appropriately solemn upon hearing of the Dwarf's imminent leaving.  He joined the conversation with aplomb, asking Gimli to recount what had happened at the council earlier in the day; for though Nimfëalórien's father did not favor the strange folk of Mirkwood, he was interested to know what had been decided regarding the fate of that realm's captive prince.  

            At length, Gimli noted the fading sunbeams from without, and knew the day was waning swiftly.  his heart sank more with each passing minute; they were the last that he would spend in the company of the friends he had garnered for a very long time, he knew.  Finally, Líssulma turned to the Dwarf and spoke, quietly and somberly.  "We must soon depart for the king of Mirkwood's company, Master Gimli, lest you should be late in arriving."

            Gimli conceded with no small amount of melancholy.  He managed, however, to smile at the lord and lady of the house as they gave their farewells.  Lómeldarion's valediction was brief, and at once grave and melodious: "_Nai man Vardo alata cala tenn'tie le __pella__."  Later, Nimfëalórien explained to Gimli that the words had been a blessing: __May blessed Varda's radiance shine upon the path before you.  Lady Tinlórewen again thanked the Dwarf for her son's life, and promised that Gimli would always be welcome in their home for so long as they remained within the bounds of mortal shores.  Nimfëalórien's sisters were quiet but sincere in their farewells, and the taller of the two went so far as to touch the Gimli's shoulder and address him as __mellonog—Friend Dwarf._

            At last, Nimfëalórien and Líssulma escorted their friend from the home and began to lead him to the camp of Mirkwood's host.  The mallorns whispered and rustled above, for a cool breeze had awakened with the evening's approach.  Rose-tinged shafts of light played over the silver boughs.  The Dwarf and his Elven escorts walked in silence for some time, listening to the leaves murmuring and the melodies floating on the air about them.  Something painful closed round Gimli's heart as he heard the songs.  He would truly miss those strange harmonies, for they were a vital component of Lothlórien's otherworldly beauty—a splendor that, to be sure, Gimli valued highly.  Though he was a Dwarf, more suited to environs of earth and stone, Gimli had come to treasure the serenity to be found in Lady Galadriel's forest haven.  They delayed briefly at the _flet lent to the Dwarf by the Lord and Lady of the Wood, and Gimli gathered what few possessions he had left there.  When that was done, the three continued their journey, for the Sun was sinking all too swiftly, and Gimli would soon be expected at Thranduil's campsite._

            "I shall miss you terribly, friend Dwarf," Nimfëalórien said abruptly.  "I implore you, remember your promise to Líssulma, and say that you will see us again in your lifetime!"

            "I have given my word on that, Nimfëalórien, and I shall do so again if it pleases you," Gimli replied.  "I have not the words to thank you both for your friendship and support during my stay in the Wood."

            "We need not words," Líssulma said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

            And they said no more until they descended to the forest floor and came within sight of Mirkwood's camp.  There they halted and exchanged their final farewells; they would not have opportunity to speak again, though the two Elves promised to watch Gimli depart with the host of Thranduil.  

            Líssulma bent and laid a light kiss on Gimli's cheek.  Her face was awash with tears, but her smile shone brightly in the fading daylight.  "Fare you well, Master Gimli," she said softly.  "I have no gift save my promise that I shall think of you often in your absence, and I shall look ever forward to our next meeting."

            "That is gift enough, I assure you, Lady Líssulma," Gimli told her, clasping one of her slender hands between his sturdy palms.  "As your folk say, a star shines on the hours of our meeting—and so do the Sun and Moon, say I."

            Líssulma laughed.  "I believe so as well, Gimli."

            Nimfëalórien was far more subdued, and in his gray gaze there was no small amount of woe.  "I fear life may seem tedious without your company, Gimli," he said.  "I, too, have only words and wishes to offer as gifts, but I hope they are as well received.  May your path remain ever clear, and your axe as sharp as your wit, as you set forth to bring freedom to a friend lost.  I shall remember you and dream of caverns, friend Dwarf, until we meet again."  The young Elf's voice lost much of its solemnity then, and he quirked a grin.  "And, Gimli my friend, do endeavor to become ensnared."

            Gimli grinned behind his beard and looked pointedly at Líssulma, then back at Nimfëalórien.  "You, I believe, are in more danger of such, Crazy Elf," he remarked.  "One day we shall go to the Glittering Caves of Helm's Deep, you and I and Legolas, and we shall see together whether they are worthy of their description."

            "I am most impatient for that time," Nimfëalórien said softly, his voice again serious. _ "Farewell, friend Dwarf."_

            "We shall see you on the morrow," Líssulma added.

            Gimli bowed to them, planting his axe's haft on the ground and placing one hand over his heart in the formal Dwarven tradition.  "Until we meet again, my friends," he said.  "I shall look for you tomorrow morn."

            With those words, and a final smile of farewell, Gimli turned and walked toward the camp of Mirkwood's host.  He put aside all melancholic thoughts for the moment; there would be time enough later to think on such things.  The time had come for him to settle among his new allies…               

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End of Chapter Seventeen.  Again, I apologize for the late posting; in addition to the circumstances I mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, I ran into an unexpected wall while writing the first portion of this installment.  Thankfully, inspiration struck, and voila!  Also, I know I promised this was the last chapter before our tale returns to the scene at Eastfold, but since this is technically a two-part chapter (see the title)…oh, I know, I cheated.  I'm cheeky like that.  There was just too much information to stuff into one installment!!  Next chapter: Gimli meets the Mirkwood gang…  

**Name notes: **

1) _Lintefanëar (Elf of Lórien, messenger of the Lord and Lady) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "swift sea-cloud."_

2) _Astalaewen __Luiniglin (Elf of Mirkwood, wife of Thranduil and Queen of Mirkwood; killed by Orcs in an ambush) = the first of these names is a Sindarin derivative that means "valiant little bird."  The second, also Sindarin, is more of a nickname that means "blue-eyed gleam;" she was so called because of her striking blue-grey eyes._

3) _Elfarothion (Elf of Lórien) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "star-hunter's son."_

4) _Analossë (lady Elf of Lórien, wife of Elfarothion) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "snow's gift" or "gift-snow."  She may have been named for Taniquetil in Aman._


	18. Junctures, Part 2

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Eighteen**

**Summary: If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Some of this story is quoted directly from the trilogy itself.  I will note these excerpts with italics, so pay attention and don't sue me for plagiarism!  I wouldn't dream of such an offense against the great JRR!!**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, "The Languages of Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the LOTR movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website. **

**Replies to reviews:**

JastaElf:  **_OHMAGERSH!!!!!!  (Katharine staggers around, lightheaded with delight)  Thank you _****_SO much for all of the compliments, great lady!  I am a devoted fan of yours; though the review board doesn't tell as much.  (Katharine shuffles feet, embarrassed)  I really need to go back and review, eh?  Don't worry, I shall.  Anyhoo, thank you again!  I am incredibly pleased to read that you are enjoying TWW so much.  It's my pride and joy, you know—my first "baby," so to speak.  I, too, am a HUGE fan of Thranduil and Celeborn (BTW, I would also like to *figuratively* slay some of those detestable Thrand-bashers!!!).  And yes, the Mirkwood Elves hold a special place in my shriveled little heart.  ;)  I'm honored that you think so highly of this piece…although I now have a mountainously high standard to adhere to (oh darn). :)  Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the remarks; and as to Legolas and Frodo?  We shall see…(snicker).  Stick around!  There is much to be done before the end!_**

TreeHugger: Yah, I'm finally spelling your pen name correctly (I always forget that the "h" is capitalized, blast it!).  Thank you for all of the splendid comments, _melaglar nin!  I shall also miss Nimfëalórien and Líssulma, but keep an eye out for some briefly-mentioned characters from past chapters to pop up in the near future!  _

Raen: Random!  My favorite kind!  Er, um, thanks for all the compliments and stuff…but actually, the story about Astalaewen _isn't in Master Tolkien's canon.  The Great Man never said a peep about Thranduil's wife or what happened to her, so I, like so many others, took it upon myself to create a name, identity, and eventual fate for the Queen of Mirkwood.  Lady Astalaewen is purely a component of my own imagination.  I'm glad it's plausible enough to be taken for fact, though!  :)_

Laura M: Welcome to "The Weeping Wraith," dear lady!  I'm so glad you're enjoying; you might say I was purring as I read your wonderful reviews!  :)  Oh, I won't hurt Frodo…much…for a while…heh heh heh…Sorry, mildly heinous moment there.  Ruffling?  Oh, I'll do more than ruffle 'em in the future, don't you worry…in the meantime, keep reading and enjoying, because as you said, there's no end in sight yet!

Salak: Welcome back, _mellon__ nin!  I don't recall saying anything of the sort, but if I somehow implied it, I'm very sorry!  I can't get back to Lasselanta and Frodo until I set things up with Gimli and Co.  See the Author's Notes at the end of this chapter for more on the subject.  Until then, enjoy…_

Seaweed: Aren't computers a bugger like that?  I shall wait for the really really long review…but until then, thanks for the brief compliments; they were a joy!  Enjoy the continuation!

Now, on to the tale!

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            Gimli shouldered his axe as he strode purposefully toward the campsite of Thranduil's host.  He did not look back to see whether Nimfëalórien and Líssulma yet remained; if he had, he would have seen naught but the quiet forest and a last smattering of the Sun's dying rays, for his friends had already departed for Caras Galadhon.  Gimli put aside thoughts of leaving them for the moment, knowing that such ruminations would only distract him from the meetings ahead.  

The Elves of Mirkwood had chosen an expansive clearing near the bounds of the City in which to make their provisional dwelling; Lórien's colossal mallorns soared upward at the clearing's fringes, neatly hemming its carpet of greenery, but the stars blooming in the dimming sky were clearly visible through the small break in the golden canopy above.  Gimli was not greatly surprised that the Elves had chosen such a locale in which to set their camp, for he well knew how deeply Legolas and his kin loved the stars.  Often he had woken in the night to see the Elf smiling up at the luminous array and humming his delight to the evening air.  Gimli wondered, with a touch of sorrow, if his friend could see the stars from his captivity…  

            "_Daro!" a soft voice commanded from behind the Dwarf._

            Gimli paused, but did not turn to face the Elf at his back.  He suspected there was at least one Elven arrow nocked and leveled on him, if not more.  "Greetings," he said courteously, remaining so calm and motionless he was sure Galadriel would have been pleased at his restraint.  "King Thranduil is expecting me, I believe, for he instructed me to join your company this eve."

            Three tall Elves stepped into view, dressed in the dark green and brown leathers of the Woodland Realm.  Their longbows rested at their sides, and they held no arrows in their free hands, though Gimli was fairly certain that such had not been the case a moment past.  "Greetings, Master Dwarf," one of them—a trim warrior with dark locks caught in intricate braids—replied in lightly accented Westron.  "We were told of your impending arrival.  I am to escort you to meet the _aranhîr at once."_

            Gimli did not recognize the title the Elf had cited, but he could only assume it referred to King Thranduil.  "Lead on, then, Master Elf," he said.  

            The Elf nodded to his companions, who easily faded into the deepening shadows, returning to their duties as sentries.  Gimli briefly wondered at the reasoning behind such guard, for no evil could trespass so far within Galadriel's forest without raising alarm and meeting sore opposition from the Guardians.  The Dwarf supposed it was pure reflex for Legolas' kith to appoint a watch, for they had long shared borders with evil that was not so hesitant to invade their realm.  The Elf who spoke Westron then turned to Gimli and beckoned curtly.  "Come.  The _aranhîr expects you."_

            Gimli fell into step beside the Elf, refusing to follow behind like a tame dog.  If the Elf was surprised or aggravated at the Dwarf's boldness, he did not evince such.  As they walked further into the camp, Gimli surveyed the surroundings with curiosity—and more than a little circumspection.  He was well aware that the presence of a Dwarf in their camp was not likely to be kindly regarded by most of the Wood-elves, as Glóin had attested to many a time over the years.  Indeed, more than one abrasive stare met Gimli's gaze as he met the eyes of the host of Mirkwood.  Though the green clearing was host to a scattering of cleverly camouflaged tents, most of the Elves lingered in the open air, speaking softly to one another, cleaning weapons, or simply gazing up at the ebon curtains descending upon the heels of the setting Sun.  Nearly all of them were diverted from their tasks by the Dwarf's passing, but very few were then inclined to resume their pursuits with any haste.  Gimli glanced up at the stars himself, ignoring the stares and murmurs from all around; the fiery white flecks had only just begun to twinkle their greetings to those who trod the earth, but would soon blaze brightly in the darkness left by Anor's desertion.  "I do hope that Legolas can see the stars tonight," he found himself murmuring aloud.

            The Elf escorting Gimli jerked his gaze down to fix on the Dwarf's somber face, surprise and suspicion flashing in his countenance.  After a moment of contemplation, the warrior of Mirkwood nodded slowly, his expression briefly flickering with subdued sorrow.  "As do all of his people, Master Dwarf."  He cocked his head inquisitively, directing a keen gaze down at his companion.  "Is it then true, the rumor we have heard among the trees?  Do you sincerely count a prince of the Elves of Mirkwood among your allies?" 

            Gimli met the Elf's gaze squarely, refusing to flinch from the considerable severity of that direct stare.  "I count him among my friends, Master Elf, and he does me the same honor."

            The Elf quirked his dark brows in what might have been a subdued shrug, but made no reply regarding Gimli's assertive statement.  "You shall likely spend much time in my company, Master Dwarf," he said, gray eyes glittering with the sheen of what few torches were being lit in the camp, "for I am one of those few among my people who speaks the Common Tongue.  I am named Melereg, son of Melannûn of Greenwood."

            "I am Gimli son of Glóin, of the Lonely Mountain," Gimli replied courteously.

            "'Tis an interesting weapon you bear, Master Gimli," Melereg remarked, flicking a glance up the haft of the axe resting on the Dwarf's shoulder.  "A wicked blade, indeed.  Do you intend to join our company or rend it to pieces?"

            Gimli gave a surprised snort of laughter, then said, "Worry not, Master Elf.  My blade's cravings lie elsewhere, in foul Orc flesh and that of any others who serve the Enemy."

            "Then you shall have no need of it for some time yet, for there are no Orcs within the _aranhîr's tent," Melereg replied.  They had come to a sizeable tent overshadowed by the gleaming banner of the Woodland Realm, which fluttered proudly from a rod thrust into the ground nearby.  _

Two warriors stood before the closed entrance flaps, their eyes shining with keen vigilance.  One of them stepped forward when Melereg and his charge approached.  "_Daro," he commanded, then spoke a rapid phrase that Gimli could not decipher.  _

Melereg answered shortly, then turned to Gimli.  "They request that you leave your weapons without before entering the king's tent."

            Gimli resisted the impulse to refuse outright, for he well knew that he was a guest among suspicious Elves.  "Are all guests so entreated?" he asked with forced calm.

            Melereg frowned slightly at the Dwarf's reluctance.  "If it pleases you to know as such, then yes, all outsiders are disarmed before they are taken to see the _aranhîr.  Prudence dictates that this is done."_

            Gimli paused for a long moment, then slowly lifted his axe from his shoulder and gave it over to the waiting Elven guard at the entrance to the tent.  Before he released the hilt, however, Gimli met the Elf's eyes and said, "Be not inconsiderate with this weapon, for it has survived the turmoil of three generations of my family."

            Melereg translated the words for his fellow Elves, then asked, "Do you have any other weaponry, Master Gimli?" 

            Gimli hesitated, loathe to relinquish Lord Celeborn's gift.  He dared not conceal the weapon, however, for duplicity on his part would do nothing to foster trust among the Elves.  Therefore, the Dwarf unclasped the rune-graven sheath from his belt and brought the hatchet out from beneath his woven Lórien cloak.  "This was a gift from Lord Celeborn himself," Gimli said quietly, his gaze boring darkly into Melereg and the guard.  "If it meets with any harm, I shall be deeply grieved, and I daresay Lord Celeborn will be displeased as well."

            Melereg's gray eyes widened fractionally, and he related the Dwarf's words to the guard.  Handing the larger battle ax over to his companion at the tent entrance, the first guard carefully took the gleaming hatchet in its sheath with both hands, plainly admiring the beauty of the weapon.  He spoke a few soft words in his own language, and Melereg interpreted them: "You have our word that it shall rest safely until you claim it once more."

            Gimli was not wholly at ease, but he nodded his assent.  "I have no other weapons with me, Melereg."

            "Then come, for the _aran brannon awaits."  With those words, Melereg led Gimli past the Elven guards, who had resumed their alert stances to either side, and into the tent._

            The low hum of conversation was heard within, vibrating on the air like a collection of autumn leaves swaying on their slender boughs.  The sound rather resembled that of the Hall of Lórien's receiving chamber when the council had been summoned, Gimli thought.  In the center of the tent's main compartment there stood a table of sorts, upon which were spread a variety of maps and other parchments.  A small assembly of Elves garbed as warriors were gathered round the table, conferring amongst themselves.

            "Greetings, Gimli of Erebor, and to you also, Melereg Melannûnion," came Thranduil's deep timbre from the far side of the table.  

            The Dwarf saw the king then, standing at the head of the ring of Elves convened at the table.  As the fair company turned to regard Gimli and Melereg, the two bowed deeply, and Gimli replied, "Good evening, my lord Thranduil.  I am here at your request."  

            "That is well," Thranduil said, "and I am pleased to note your punctuality.  I have a matter to discuss with you, and we would do well to begin as soon as we may, for we embark in the early hours tomorrow."  The Elvenking cast his glance at the Elven warriors assembled around the table, and spoke in his own tongue for a moment.  The gathered Elves inclined their heads and murmured in reply, then turned and began to depart from the tent.

            One of their number paused before passing by Gimli and Melereg.  He was tall and sinewy of build, with lean features and sienna hair woven into narrow plaits about his face.  The Elf was familiar to Gimli's eyes, but he could not remember where he might have seen the warrior previously.  "Greetings and welcome, Master Gimli," the Elf said cordially.  "I will not hold it against you if you do not recall my face.  I am the rider who bore your friend Nimfëalórien to Caras Galadhon four nights past."

            Gimli smiled through his beard, suddenly remembering.  "Hail, Master Rider!" he said genially.  "It is good to see you again, so that I may thank you once more for saving the life of that crazy Elfling."

            A slight laugh bubbled forth, and the rider shook his head.  "Nay, Master Gimli, 'twas your concern and swift attention that preserved him.  I am named Mirmíthuial, but I prefer to be known by my father-name, Mirion."

            "It is an honor to make your proper acquaintance, Lord Mirion," Gimli told him.

            "The honor is mine, Master Gimli, but it is not necessary to employ that title," Mirion replied with a negating wave of his hand.  "I am but one of my _aranhîr's host, and not a lord in my own land.  I am simply Mirion."_

            "Then I shall certainly object to your use of the appellation _Master," the Dwarf countered amiably, "for I am a master of naught but my axe and my own two feet.  I am merely Gimli."_

            Mirion gave a slight bow.  "Very well.  I must go now, but I shall speak more with you at a later time.  _Mae govannen, Gimli."_

            Gimli responded with his own short bow, saying, "At your service, Mirion."  He was yet unsure of the Elven warrior's cause for such congeniality toward a Dwarf, but he was nonetheless appreciative.

            Mirion nodded to both Gimli and Melereg, then departed with hardly a whisper of movement to denote his leaving.  Melereg, for his part, had watched the exchange with faint curiosity; but he withheld any questions he harbored, saying only, "I must leave as well, Master Gimli—or merely Gimli, if you wish—for the _aranhîr wishes to speak with you alone."_

            "I expect I shall see you again before long, Melereg.  Thank you for your courtesy," Gimli said graciously.  He then added, "And yes, if your intention is further civility, then I shall be glad to be known by my name alone."

            With a nod, Melereg looked past Gimli and said, "By your leave, _aran brannon."_

            "Take your rest, Melereg," Thranduil replied from behind the Dwarf.  By the slight diminishing of the Elvenking's volume, Gimli could ascertain that Thranduil had either moved further into the tent's recesses, or had turned his back to Gimli and the departing Elves.

            As Melereg swiftly exited the tent, Gimli turned to face Thranduil and the vacant space around the table.  The Elf-lord stood at a smaller table in one corner of the spacious compartment, pouring two glasses of red wine from a slender-necked blue flask.  Gimli curbed his curiosity, deciding to let the king begin the conversation.  He clandestinely observed the similarities and differences between Thranduil's appearance and Legolas'.  The king's fair skin, silken gold tresses, and undeniably proud carriage and manner were manifestly echoed in his son.  Their eyes, too, were of a like hue; however, Thranduil's gaze carried a far greater weight than did Legolas'.  As Gimli watched the Elvenking, it once again occurred to him that Thranduil was somehow set apart from Celeborn, Galadriel, and even Lord Elrond of Rivendell; but as yet, Gimli could not discern the exact dissimilarity.

            Thranduil took up the two glasses of wine and drew nearer to where Gimli stood waiting.  "I would speak long with you, Master Gimli," the king explained gravely, giving over one of the glasses into the Dwarf's hand.  "You may have need of refreshment ere I finish with you."

            Gimli accepted the wine with a slight bow.  "Thank you, my lord.  What do you wish to discuss?"

            Thranduil did not reply immediately, but seated himself on a low pile of mats with easy grace.  "Sit," he commanded, gesturing at a similar heap opposite his own.  Gimli swallowed his pride with difficulty, recognizing the tone in Thranduil's voice; it was akin to that of Legolas at his most annoyingly imperious moments, but significantly more practiced and refined.  In truth, Gimli realized, many of Legolas' mannerisms were patterned after those of his father, despite Lady Galadriel's assertion that the prince was a truer representative of his mother.

When the Dwarf had settled himself, Thranduil looked long on him, unspeaking yet.  Gimli fought the compulsion to flinch from the intensity of the Elvenking's stare; indeed, Thranduil's gaze would have lanced through a deceptive heart like a finely honed spear through an enemy's gut.  But no treachery did his eyes reveal, for Dwarves were equally steadfast in friendship and vow, and Gimli was bound by both.  At length, Thranduil's glare softened, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, sipping from his glass.  "You are unlike many of your kin, Gimli Glóin's son," the king remarked.  "Your heart is sincere, unfettered by the greed and deceit so common to your kind."

Gimli bit back an angry retort, and replied instead, "Is it a custom among the Elves of Mirkwood to insult the kith of their guests and allies, my lord?"

Surprisingly, a faint smile pulled at Thranduil's lips.  "You have been too long among the folk of Lothlórien, Master Dwarf.  Celeborn and Galadriel feel constrained to exhibit the height of courtesy when they entertain guests, and that is their prerogative.  I, however, have no love for your folk, and I am not obligated to feign otherwise."

The Dwarf blinked, at once surprised and satisfied with the Elvenking's candor.  It rather reminded him of his own father's manner; Glóin was hardly a tactician when exchanging words with rivals.  "That is well, my lord, for I chafe at false civility," he answered evenly.

Thranduil quirked one elegantly shaped brow.  "Indeed."  He drew himself up, once again pinioning Gimli with an intent stare.  "Tell me of my son's fall, Gimli of the Walkers scattered."

The instruction struck the Dwarf like a blow.  A deluge of painful memories skittered across his mind, flashing through his dark eyes like the glimmering of an ignited torch.  "Why do you wish to hear of it, my lord?" he asked with some difficulty, setting his wine glass down for fear of breaking it in the grip of such pressing emotions.  "Surely you have heard much of it before now."

"I have heard many a report concerning the incident, many a retelling, but I would hear an account from one who witnessed Legolas' fall for himself," Thranduil replied steadily.  Though the severity of his gaze once again abated, his tone remained steely.  "I warn you, I will know if you speak falsely.  Tell me all that transpired the day my son fell."

Gimli took in a breath and released it in small measures, tamping the rage and grief threatening to burst the dam he had carefully constructed and maintained around his emotions; he had intended to release the whole of his retribution on the enemies he met in the days to come, but Thranduil's piercing directive was grating sorely on his restraint.  "Very well, my lord," he replied.  And thus, Gimli began to speak.  He raised the recollections of each word spoken, each action taken, each terrible moment leading to Legolas' fall and the torn Fellowship's retreat: from their halt at the bank of the Anduin, to Legolas' warning cry, to the Elf's fearless stand and subsequent collapse beneath the hooves of the Nazgûl steeds, and finally to Aragorn's wrenching decision to flee.  Thranduil listened without comment, his gaze never wavering from Gimli's face.  The Dwarf hardly noticed the Elvenking's rapt stare, however, so mired in memory was he as he told the tale in full.

When Gimli had finished, he gave a sigh and slumped with weariness, his shoulders sagging.  He was only marginally relieved that he had kept his emotions in check, even at the most harrowing moments in his account.  The Dwarf took a long drink of the wine, then raised his gaze to meet Thranduil's.  "That is what happened, my lord, in its entirety.  I have told you all that I remember."

The king was sitting much as he had before, with his feet planted firmly on the ground and fingers steepled in his lap.  His expression was as a stone barrier; yet his eyes burned with unreadable emotion.  When he finally spoke, his voice carried palpable fury.  "Then it was Aragorn who gave the command to flee?  Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the heir of Isildur son of Elendil?"

Gimli was weary from the long speech, and so did not quite perceive the deadly inflections in Thranduil's voice.  "Yes, my lord.  He acted out of concern for the remainder of the Company, for if we had not retreated, Meriadoc would have died of his wound and others might have been injured.  If, by some misfortune, we had all taken fatal wounds, the Ring would have been captured and returned to the Enemy's hand."  

"Then perhaps it was deemed best that my son be delivered into Saruman's hand in the Ring's stead," Thranduil remarked icily.

Gimli looked up sharply.  "Nay," he said, shaking his head almost violently.  "Not one of us has felt a single moment of relief at our own escape, King Thranduil, for we all held Legolas dear to our hearts.  If he is my greatest friend, then he is as a brother to Aragorn."

The Elvenking's eyes flashed hotly, in sharp contrast with his frigid tone.  "Little worth do such bonds retain in the shadow of the Dark One, it seems," Thranduil retorted sharply, "for this very same friend and brother you speak of was abandoned to the mercies of the Nazgûl, was he not?"

Gimli's glare took on a potency to rival that of the king himself.  "Legolas chose of his own will to remain on the riverbank as a rearguard, King Thranduil, against the wishes of myself and Aragorn alike.  It was Legolas who first commanded us to flee, in the hope that his defense would purchase our lives.  Would you now dishonor his sacrifice with accusations of treachery?"

Silence fell, heavy and charged with wrath.  They glared at each other, the Elf-lord and the Dwarf, their wills clashing forcefully in the space between them.  Neither would yield to the other; Gimli felt the pressure most brutally, but his pride and anger on behalf of his friends bolstered his strength, and he refused to concede defeat. 

"You tread perilously, Dwarf," Thranduil said finally, his voice soft but as sharp as an Elven blade.  "Were you not named Elf-friend by the Lady Galadriel, I would separate your insolent head from your shoulders without a single moment's indecision."

"I do not seek to incur your anger, my lord, nor to abuse the Lady's favor," Gimli replied stiffly.  "But I will not suffer it to be said that Legolas was deserted by his friends.  If there had been any certain hope of rescue that night, I would have gone back myself and retrieved him.  Surely you can see that I speak truly."

            Much of the rage bled from the Elvenking's countenance.  Thranduil did not speak for several long moments, during which time Gimli became increasingly aware of his body's clamoring for rest.  The confrontation with the Elven lord had taken much of his waning strength.  Thranduil, by contrast, held himself upright, with no hint of weariness in his proud features; indeed, he seemed all the more vibrant for the conflict.  Gimli had grown accustomed to the enigmatic radiance that seemed to follow Legolas wherever he walked, but it was as the softest glow when compared to the forceful dynamism of Legolas' sire; and in turn, the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien emanated a far brighter light still.  The Dwarf wondered again at the disparity; and with an inward sigh, he supposed it was an Elvish matter, and one not likely to be grasped by a Dwarf with only small experience in such affairs.

Thranduil flicked his ash-hued gaze up to Gimli's face once again, regarding the Dwarf in silence as thick as the snow clouds of Caradhras.  "You are a strange creature indeed, Gimli Glóin's son," the Elvenking remarked, the flames in his eyes greatly subdued.  "Yes, you speak truthfully, and that is an amazing thing to my mind.  Why and wherefore you came to harbor such loyalty to my son is beyond my comprehension, but it rings in your every word, and I cannot dismiss it from my consideration.  Therefore I tell you this: I yet possess no liking for you, nor do I give you my full measure of trust—but I shall henceforth hold you blameless in Legolas' loss."

            Gimli stared at the Elf-lord in relieved astonishment.  He had certainly not expected such a pardoning from the stern king of Mirkwood, even after setting forth his defense.  "That understanding is all I ask, my lord, and I thank you for granting it," the Dwarf answered.  He felt the impulse to bow, but such an action would have been quite difficult in his seated position, and so he merely inclined his head.

            Thranduil abruptly flowed to his feet in one smooth motion and gazed down at Gimli.  "You are weary, Master Dwarf, and had best take your rest ere the night deepens further.  A tent has been made available for your use; I shall summon an escort to take you to it."

            Gimli stood as well, ignoring the protests of his fatigued body.  "Thank you, my lord."  He was unsure of what to do with the glass yet held in his left hand, but Thranduil wordlessly took it and set it on the table.

            That done, the Elvenking strode to the entrance of his tent and stepped outside.  After but a moment, he returned and said, "Your escort comes.  Be ready to depart ere the dawn breaks."

            Gimli nodded, saying only, "I shall, my lord."

            Thranduil paused then, and turned to face the Dwarf.  "You may find my people less forbearing than those of Lothlórien, son of Glóin; however, I will not abide blatant abuse to your person.  There are not many who speak the Common, but such few as there are have been instructed to assist you when necessary.  You are to march with the company on foot by day, and you are free to move about the camp by night; but do not pass beyond the sentries, or I cannot be held responsible should any ill fate befall you."

            Gimli absorbed the information and answered, "I understand."

            Thranduil gave a curt nod.  "Very well.  You have my leave to go."

            Gimli bowed and wordlessly exited the king's tent.  The depths of the night's obscurity were held at bay by cheerful torches flickering at varying places within the bounds of the camp.  Most of the Elves had retired for the evening, but a few faint melodies yet wafted on the cool air.  Gimli stifled the yawn creeping into his throat and turned to face the two guards yet standing to either side of the entrance to Thranduil's tent.  "I believe you were holding two items in your care until my leaving," the Dwarf remarked.  He was fairly sure that the Elves did not understand his words, but he supposed his intent was clear enough. 

            The guardian to the left nodded gravely and retrieved Gimli's axe from where it lay propped against a stone.  The hatchet, however, he removed from within a cloak piled atop the stone—where it had been placed, evidently, to keep it sound until Gimli's return.  These things he gave over to the Dwarf, then stepped back with a slight bow and resumed his task.  

            Gimli voiced his thanks, again knowing that the guards did not understand his speech, then set to fastening the hatchet to his belt once more.  When he looked up, he was mildly startled to find a bright-eyed Elf standing some few paces away, waiting quietly for the Dwarf to notice him.  "Ah, you Elves and your soft tread," Gimli groused affably.  "Why can you not make an effort to alert hapless mortals to your approach?"

            The Elf laughed softly.  "To do so would be to deprive us of the amusement we garner upon seeing the hapless mortals' expressions, Master Gimli," he replied.  "Do you not remember me?  I am Forngíliath, one of those who met you as you sought aid for your young wounded friend on the field of battle.  I shall be one of your guides and interpreters during your travels with our company."

            Gimli vaguely recalled the terse translator, and his expression must have communicated some of his thoughts, for the Elf grimaced slightly.  "Please do not hold against me my ill conduct that day, Master Gimli," Forngíliath said ruefully.  "We of the Greenwood are a distrustful folk, and it serves us well in our forest; yet it can be a hindrance when we encounter possible allies.  I did not know of your intentions then."

            "And do you now?" Gimli asked.

            "Yes, as do all of my fellows," the Elf answered.  "Word travels swiftly among my people.  You were the Dwarf among the Nine Walkers who set forth from Imladris.  You are said to have gained Prince Legolas' friendship, despite the animosity between our peoples.  And you are indeed the very same Dwarf who remained alone in the Golden Wood in hopes of finding a means of rescue for the prince."  Forngíliath smiled then, and continued, "Too, I witnessed your sincerity for myself.  I had not thought to ever see such concern in the face of a Dwarf, and certainly not on behalf of a wounded Elf.  Your young friend was fortunate."

            "Fortune is bestowed upon those with no one to take care for them," Gimli remarked.  "I considered myself rather fortunate to have gained Nimfëalórien's friendship.  But I am curious: I seem to have amassed a number of allies with one simple act of concern, though in my mind I did nothing astonishing.  Surely any Elf would have done the same for a friend?"

            Forngíliath smiled.  "Yes, but few Dwarves can claim an Elf as a friend, nor do many of my people look with favor upon yours.  But perhaps you have begun to amend the beliefs of some."  He then turned, beckoning to Gimli.  "Come, I shall take you to the tent prepared for you.  It is not far."

            Gimli hefted his axe, grunting under his breath as the haft dug into a particularly knotted muscle.  "That is well, for your lord is the most formidable opponent I have ever encountered in an ally's tent," he muttered as he fell into step beside Forngíliath.

            The Elf gave a quiet laugh.  "Be of cheer, good Gimli, for you have escaped the _aran brannon's wrath in far better condition than many others before you.  As my grandsire would likely say, the House of Oropher has never been renowned for the patience of its progeny."_

            Gimli gave a snort.  "Aye, that is most conceivable.  I shall never forget Legolas' anger when he learned that he was to be blindfolded with the rest of the Company upon our first entrance into Lothlórien.  I had never seen him quite so roused; one would think that he had been commanded to exchange marital vows with an Orc!"

            Forngíliath pressed his lips together to stifle his laughter, but his shoulders shook in betrayal of his merriment.  "It is a custom among my folk to gather in the evening for songs and tales after the day's march, Gimli.  Mayhap on the morrow you shall regale us with an account of our Prince's doings since his departure from our realm!"

            The Dwarf chuckled, but the sound was quickly swallowed by a yawn.  "Mayhap, Forngíliath, I shall.  Unless I perish for lack of sleep ere then."

            "Have no fear of that, for here is your tent," the Elf said, gesturing to a small tent just to the fore.  "Rest you well and deeply, Master Dwarf, for the march will be long."

            "Thank you, Forngíliath, and may your dreams be pleasant," Gimli replied.  With those words, he gave the Elf a slight bow of farewell, and entered the tent.

            The grass flooring was not unlike the boughs of his bedding in the _flet in Lórien, Gimli thought drowsily.  The Elvish melodies floating in the air were strange, somewhat more resonant than those of the Golden Wood, but they were sweet even to Dwarven ears, and Gimli was soon lost to a deep slumber._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Chapter Eighteen.  Boy, that Elvenking sure is a prickly thing, isn't he?  :)  But Gimli can handle it.

**Author's Notes:  Okay, I _know I promised to return to the action at Eastfold, and I __promised to update everyone on the situation with Frodo and Lasselanta, so here it goes: at this point, the Renewed Fellowship has just passed Sarn Gebir—an action which actually happened way back in Chapter __Nine!!  Needless to say, a lot has been going on in Lothlórien…hence, the plethora of Gimli chapters (and that's not a bad thing—the poor guy deserves as much screen time as he can get!).  They're going to continue, too, for a little while at least.  (Katharine hunkers down in preparation for the outraged readership's lambasting.)  Yikes, lemme explain!!  You see, I've constructed a timeline to keep myself aware of when things should happen, in what order, and how they correspond to events elsewhere.  I had __intended to return to Eastfold and Frodo by next chapter, but it didn't work out that way.  The cheery Elves of Mirkwood have presented me with several plot pieces to assemble, and all of that must be done before I can pick up again with Eastfold.  After all, the attack in which Frodo is captured (see Chapter Twelve) doesn't occur until __two full days after the time in which Chapter Eighteen is set.  If I'm going to keep in accordance with the timeline, as I fully intend to do, then there are a few things yet to do with Gimli and Thranduil's host before I can get back to the Renewed Fellowship and poor Frodo!  I'm thinking (tentatively of course) that there might be one or two more Gimli-and-the-Elves chapters, and then I'll have caught up with the timeline.  I'm terribly sorry if I tick anyone off; I simply cannot forsake character and plot formation for the sake of easing the distressed readership!  ;)  Also, I think I should warn everyone: this will be the last chance for humor and foolin' around to come up for a __very long time, so enjoy it while it lasts!  *Sigh*  I expect to get a few small flames for this; don't feel too bad if you choose to do so, since I really am breaking a promise here!  (Katharine shivers.)  I need the heat anyway; my toes get cold in the morning.  I hope you all continue to enjoy the story, though, despite my foibles.  :)  Next chapter: Gimli hangs out with the Mirkwood gang, and the laughs abound…_**

**Name translations:**

1) _Melereg (Elf of Mirkwood, one of Gimli's guides and interpreters among Thranduil's host) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "beloved thorn" or "beloved holly," depending on which parent is addressing him._

2) _Melannûn (Elf of Mirkwood, father of Melereg) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "beloved sunset."  It likely refers to the Elvish preference for the stars, which only appear after the sun sets._

3) _Mirmíthuial, whose name was said to be a Sindarin derivative meaning "jewel of gray twilight" at the end of Chapter Sixteen, is better known by his father-name, __Mirion, which means "son of a jewel."  His father likely called him thus in honor of his mother, and by continuing to use that name, Mirion also pays her reverence. _

**Some other translations: Both _aranhîr and __aran brannon are titles of respect; they roughly translate as "king-lord" or "king-master."_**


	19. Junctures, Part 3

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Nineteen**

**Summary: If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…**

**Notes: This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  **

**Disclaimer: Though this story has digressed to an absurd degree from the original Trilogy, it is still operating under the rules and within the environs set down by Master Tolkien, the genius who masterminded the whole enchilada.  Bottom line: it ain't mine.  All props to the Great Man.**

**Further notes: My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, "The Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the _Fellowship of the Ring movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, the __Two Towers movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  _**

**Replies to reviews: *Boggles at the number of reviews*  Thank you, readership; Chapter Eighteen holds the current TWW record for number of reviews garnered by a single chapter!  ^_^  Keep 'em comin'!**

Enigma Jade: Welcome to TWW!  You're ashamed?  I should be ashamed, dear; witness two months of no updates on this tale!  O_O

AmaterasuKami:  Sweet pen name, there!  Welcome!  Heh heh…I, too, am a huge fan of Celeborn and Galadriel, and now that you mention it, the dear Lord of Lórien has been clamoring for an _Uncommon Tale concerning the battle for Doriath…_

Badger Lord: Welcome, welcome!  Your new fave?  Moi?  Thankee!  ^_^  Oh, Legolas will get more screen time, don't worry…and as for the Fellowship fighting him, well, my lips are sealed…

Elvensong: Welcome to my li'l corner of the site!  A nap, eh?  Me, too.  *Yawn*  Again, as to Legolas' fate, I'm afraid I can't say a word without spoiling the whole shebang.

Seaweed: Oh, Gimli and Thranduil are just wonderful, aren't they?  I rather like their relationship; they don't really hate each other, they just aren't famous pals.  But that might change…who knows?  Oh, that's right; I KNOW!!

TreeHugger:  Always glad to see ya, _melaglar!  Oh, I do so love the Elves of Mirkwood, especially their king—although you already know that, eh?  *smirk*  I'm surprised he even talks to me anymore.  Thanks for the long review; and I'm glad you like the OCs!  They appreciate the attention!_

Soledad: Thanks for coming, and welcome!  *Hides from pet Balrog*  Um, Thundril…?  A little help, here, sweetie?  The Sisterhood of Thranduil-defenders, huh?  Sounds like my kind of group.  Who else is in?  And where do I register my many weapons?  ^_^

HaloGatomon: I'm not sure the flames of Udûn can be called _holy, but thanks anyways… ^_~_

LadyJea:  Thankee, m'dear, but you're a little late… *snicker*  Grasshoppa yourself!

chocchip: Welcome and thank you for the gush!  I'm honored that you finished in two days!  O_O  Did you even leave the computer?  Oh, don't worry about the screaming-girly-fan-ex-nay-on-the-screaming thing… *looks around furtively* I'm one myself!

Raen: Hey there!  Poor little Elven prince, indeed.  I'm surprised _he still talks to me, too!  *shakes head*  Frying pans, eh?  Youch.  People are vicious!_

Irena: Hi!  Thankees for the review; I'm SO glad you like my Thranduil.  I do so love that guy!  ^_^  (Now gimme more Femme Legolas!)

Kollar: Hey hey, welcome!  I'm terribly pleased you're actually reading this time; maybe I'll save the evisceration in fiction for a later date.  ^_~  Thanks for the reviews, dude, they mean a lot to me!

Niphrandl: Many welcomes to thee!  I jumped for joy when I saw all of the praise you gave to my characterization; it's something I labor over until my pores bleed.  *Grosses out at that disturbing mental image*  As to the blade…well, we'll just have to wait and see… nay, you have not begun in vain, I promise!  TWW will see an end, I promise!

Katharine the Great: You blooming dolt, you reviewed yourself.  You ought to whack yourself with a large fence post.  *Whacks self*  OW!

Laura M: Welcome back!  Are you still in Japan, or are you back to wherever you are from?  How was the trip?  And did you actually get to go sight-seeing?

Daphne: Welcome, welcome, all around!  Thanks for the multiple reviews; so glad you're enjoying!  ^_^

**Further other notes: My _extremely humongous apologies for the length of time between postings here!  After Chapter Eighteen was written and posted, the muses all went on a TWW-strike and skipped merrily away to pursue other things, such as the various humor pieces and homage-fics that were spawned in the interim—not to mention the continuing development of __Tales of the Jade King, the collaborative WIP being coaxed into existence by the charming TreeHugger and I.  Thankfully, the muses returned to service and churned this chapter out.  ^_^  Please bear with my poor gray matter; it slogs daily through an appalling mush of wriggling plotbunnies, plot tidbits, and research materials—in addition to coping with the inescapable madness of RL.  I assure everyone, TWW will __not be abandoned for any reason, barring the authoress' untimely demise!  ^_~  _**

And now, _finally, on with the tale…_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

"Master Dwarf, if you do not wake within a very few minutes, I shall be compelled to shear away the length of your beard."

            Gimli yawned and opened one eye to glare balefully at the fair Elven face peering down at him.  Forngíliath was barely recognizable in the dim light; the Sun had not yet peeped over the horizon, and the only illumination was provided by a torch flickering near to the Dwarf's tent.  "Touch my beard, Master Elf, and I shall be compelled to avenge it by way of bloodshed," Gimli growled.

            Forngíliath grinned in a most wicked fashion.  "I am sorely tempted to put that threat to test, truly I am, Gimli.  Alas for us both, if you should not rise!  The _aranhîr would not likely find a shaven Dwarf and a maimed Elf amusing, particularly in the very earliest hours of the morn."_

            Gimli grumbled a choice Dwarven phrase beneath his breath, and purposefully sat up quickly in an effort to knock the cheeky Elf askew.  Forngíliath's agility served him well, however, for he smilingly evaded Gimli's effort to displace him and slipped out of the tent with easy grace, calling back, "Ready yourself swiftly, Gimli!  We depart ere the hour passes!"

            Gimli sighed in the sudden quiet.  He could hear the camp beyond the cloth walls rustling with life—tents being collapsed, Elves speaking and singing to one another, and the occasional rhythm of a horse's hooves on the dew-drenched grass.  The Dwarf harrumphed with some small amusement as he thought on Forngíliath's cheerful remarks, for he recalled Legolas making similar threats about his beard.  Gimli began to wonder if all of his friend's people were as impertinent as their prince; if so, he doubted he would endure a single day without being driven to menace one of their number with his axe.

            With that optimistic notion, Gimli began to straighten his sleep-rumpled appearance for the day.  As was the norm, his battle axe lay at his side, close at hand in case of a need for it in the night.  The hatchet from Lord Celeborn was also near, but it lay atop the Dwarf's bundled Lórien cloak so that it was kept free of the grass and earth.  Gimli wished to keep the marvelous weapon pristine until it found its proper veneer in Orc gore.

            Once he had suitably organized his layers of mail and shirt, Gimli stood and attached the hatchet's sheath to his belt.  The tent was not exceedingly tall, but neither was the Dwarf; and so where Forngíliath had stooped, Gimli stood straight.  He grinned at that revelation.  "It seems I have found at least some incontestable advantage for my height," Gimli muttered to himself.  Collecting his axe, he then pushed aside the tent's entrance flap and walked outside.

            The encampment was nearly completely dismantled.  Tents were folded and placed on the backs of willing horses, along with well-balanced sacks of provisions.  The Elves stood fully armed, with bows and quivers at their backs, swords girt to their waists, and many a long spear in hand.  They were dressed in similar manner to Legolas, but as they were not of the royal family, their garb was more rustic and worn.  Most glanced at Gimli upon his emergence, but none spoke to him.  It was just as well, however, for most of them did not understand the Westron.

Forngíliath appeared once more, his features alight with enthusiasm, eyes glinting in the torchlight.  "All is nearly in readiness, Gimli.  I shall collapse your tent and pack it onto Anarokko, and then we will join the company on foot."

Gimli assisted the Elf in the dismantling of the tent.  When they had reduced it to a bundle of cloth wrapped about slender support rods, Forngíliath turned and whistled through his teeth, then called out in his own tongue.  In response, a sizeable steed of graceful build proudly trotted forth to join the Elf and Dwarf.  Gimli looked warily up at the beast; like most of his people, he was not fond of the creatures, and certainly had no inclination to ride one.  He was glad he would be walking among the host of Mirkwood—his own feet had always served him well, and much better than the four legs of any horse.  

Forngíliath markedly thought otherwise, for he affectionately stroked the steed's nose and patted its dappled flanks.  "Gimli, this is Anarokko.  He has kindly agreed to bear both your tent and mine."

"I suppose I must be appreciative, then," Gimli replied, keeping a short distance between himself and the large creature.  "Does he belong to you?"

Anarokko snorted, as if in direct response to the query.  Forngíliath laughed as he secured Gimli's tent to the horse's broad back.  "Nay, Gimli, I believe he would dispute any such claim.  He is very much his own creature."  

Gimli eyed Anarokko dubiously, and he could have sworn that the steed's gaze was just as skeptical.  "Then I am doubly glad that I shall not be astride him for the journey," the Dwarf remarked, "for I think that he is not fond of me, and the sentiment is mutual."

Forngíliath turned a considering gaze to the horse, and to Gimli's surprise and confusion, the Elf proceeded to speak a few words to the beast in the Elvish tongue.  When he had finished, Forngíliath smiled cheerfully at Gimli.  "I have explained to him what manner of creature you are, Master Dwarf.  He has never seen one of your folk before."

Gimli harrumphed into his beard.  "You speak as though the animal can understand your speech, Forngíliath."

Anarokko stamped one of his forelegs and laid his ears back briefly.  The Elf rested a soothing hand on the stallion's gray mane and turned a reproving glance on Gimli.  "All good beasts hearken to the tongue of my folk, Gimli.  Anarokko does indeed understand me, and I daresay that he knows the intent of your speech, as well."

The Dwarf tried not to allow his doubt color his expression or tone.  "As you say, Forngíliath.  All the same, I am certain he is as pleased as I am that he shall not be asked to bear me along with my tent."

Forngíliath nodded sagely.  "On that we are agreed."

A lilting series of notes floated through the air, delivered of an instrument that sounded to Gimli's ear like a blend of the horn and flute.  An Elven device, he surmised.  Forngíliath gave Anarokko a quick word, then turned and beckoned to Gimli.  "Come, Master Dwarf, we are bidden to assemble with the host!"

Gimli shouldered his axe.  "Lead on, Master Elf," he replied.

The grassy clearing was swiftly emptying as the last of the Elves and horses responded to the musical summons.  Forngíliath had evidently commanded Anarokko to join the ranks of his fellow steeds, for the horse whickered at the Elf's words and trotted ahead, his gait unaffected by his burdens.  Gimli was not at all saddened by the beast's departure; horses were unpleasant enough on their own merit, and doubly so when they gave the impression of uncanny cleverness, as had Anarokko.  Forngíliath grinned at the Dwarf's muttered relief, but refrained from commenting.

They passed beyond the bounds of the glade and once more entered under the flaxen awning of the soaring mallorns.  Gimli squinted, for the boughs far above them effectively barred the cool light of the stars and Moon, and plunged the forest floor into a deeper dark than had existed in the breach presented by the clearing.  Too, the torches had been extinguished, and so the Dwarf relied on the whispers of movement from around him as the Elves moved lightly over the ground.  He could scarcely see aught but shadowy shapes against more deeply shadowed backdrops.

"I shall be walking alongside you today, Master Dwarf," Forngíliath murmured from Gimli's right.  The slender Elf appeared little more than a vague dark form to the Dwarf's eyes.  

"I am pleased to hear it, Forngíliath," Gimli replied carefully, "for I confess, I had found the notion of walking in the midst of so many Elves somewhat disconcerting."

Forngíliath's slim fingers brushed lightly against the Dwarf's shoulder reassuringly.  "Fret not, Gimli," he said.  "We are a distrustful folk, and most are not overly fond of your people—it has been so for years beyond count.  Yet you are strange to us, for you walk in the favor of our king's youngest son, and the highest lords among the Eldar look upon you with goodwill.  No harm shall come to you by the hand of any Elf of Mirkwood, you have my word."

            "I thank you for your encouragement, Forngíliath," Gimli answered sincerely.  He then dropped his voice until it barely stirred the air, knowing that the Elf's sharp ears would easily discern his speech.  "But I must admit that I gave more thought to your words than to your blades.  I know well that my friend's kin are as sharp-tongued as he is, and I did not relish the notion of defending myself against scores of hostile Elves.  To be sure, I certainly could have done so, but it would squander time and energy that I much prefer to reserve for the battles to come."

            Forngíliath gave a light, understanding chuckle.  "As do we all, I assure you.  Yes, we are a churlish lot at times—it is a necessary humor, for our lives are all too often darkened by the Shadow encroaching upon our home.  But it is known that the _aranhîr has accepted your aid in the recovery of Prince Legolas, and so I think that many of our number will comport themselves with civility."  _

            Gimli smiled to himself.  "Ah, then perhaps I shall not be forced to expend as many threats upon your fair heads as I had assumed I would," he remarked.

            "And perhaps we shall not have cause to entertain ourselves by composing mocking songs concerning a certain Dwarf," Forngíliath agreed.

            "Sing one insolent word, Elf, and I shall use your bow for kindling," Gimli harrumphed.

            "If any harm comes to my bow, Dwarf, I shall fashion a new one and use the strands of your shorn beard to string it," the Elf replied equably.

            The conversation continued in such fashion as the two companions accompanied the last remnants of Thranduil's host in their passage beneath the concealing boughs of Lórien.  The morning was still shrouded in night's star-spangled cloak, for Anor's first golden glimmer had not yet crept over the horizon.  Gimli depended on his hearing to guide him through the darkness, as well as the occasional nudge from Forngíliath, who chuckled merrily at the Dwarf's low grumbling.  The Elf was very like Legolas in manner, albeit somewhat less refined in speech, and perhaps more inclined to open mirth.  To be sure, Forngíliath smiled far more readily than did any other Elf Gimli had met thus far.  Gimli found himself greatly appreciating his translator's good humor; it was a welcome respite from the somberness and animosity that seemed to abound among the Elves of Mirkwood when they regarded their Dwarven affiliate.

            The forest came to an end somewhat abruptly.  Gimli and Forngíliath passed the last line of mallorns and emerged to join a small cluster of Elves on the near bank of a swiftly-flowing river.  The water glittered silver as it cheerfully burbled and lapped past them.  "This is the fair Celebrant—or Silverlode, in the tongue of Men," Forngíliath explained.  "We shall cross here with the last of the host, then assemble together with the _aranhîr and the riders near to Lothlórien's outermost fringe."_

            Gimli did not reply.  Nimfëalórien and Líssulma had assured their Dwarven friend that they would see him once more ere he departed the Golden Wood; therefore, he had been watching carefully for any sign of the two Elves, but as yet had seen no sign of them.  He reasoned that perhaps they had been delayed by unavoidable circumstances, for surely they would have come sooner if they were able.  Still, he held out hope that he would indeed see his young friend and the Lady's lovely handmaiden before he passed beyond the borders of Galadriel's forest haven.

            When the Fellowship had first entered Lothlórien's fair wood, they had been compelled to cross the very same river as the one that Gimli presently faced.  Haldir had led them all over the Celebrant by means of a series of ropes strung across and bound to trees on either bank.  Now Gimli would cross the Silverlode again, utilizing the same method; for the Elves at hand were gracious enough to fix extra ropes out of consideration for the less agile Dwarf.  Therefore, the company crossed without incident and continued on toward the southernmost reaches of the Wood.  

            The mallorns were less plentiful as they drew southward, and so the darkness beneath the golden canopy was not so impenetrable as it had been in the heart of the forest.  Gimli and Forngíliath spoke amiably as they traversed among the last of the warriors.  Aside from his ready jesting, the Elf was an avid listener who delighted to hear of doings in the wide world.  Gimli told his companion of such doings as he knew, and marveled at Forngíliath's insatiable curiosity—a trait that seemed common to young Elves, be they of Mirkwood or Lothlórien.  Therefore, it seemed to the Dwarf that hardly any time passed ere he and the others came within sight of the main body of Thranduil's host.  The riders and their mounts were assembled together at the head of the company, with those on foot convened behind.  Gimli fancied that he espied Anarokko among the ranks of the steeds who bore the bulk of the supplies, though all of the creatures looked much the same to his untrained sight.

            The fluttering banner of the Woodland Realm caught Gimli's attention, but the Dwarf did not at first see Thranduil himself.  A swift glance round the vicinity revealed a small contingent of Lórien Elves standing somewhat apart from the host of Mirkwood; among their number were Celeborn and Galadriel.  Gimli remembered the Lord of the Wood's assurance that he and the Lady would see their guests off in the morning, and he was pleased that he would have one last opportunity to look upon the wondrous beauty of the Lady whose kindness had captured his heart.  The sovereigns of Lórien seemed to glow with an ethereal sheen, the light of the few torches held by the Elves of Mirkwood flickering merrily across their white and silver robes.  Thranduil stood with them, and as before, his appearance contrasted strikingly with that of Celeborn and Galadriel; the Elvenking's raiment was dark, and the torches' bronze radiance bathed his chiseled features, setting his golden tresses to blaze and lending an archaic intensity to his countenance.

            Gimli had been following Forngíliath to join the ranks of the other warriors on foot, but Lord Celeborn caught sight of the Dwarf and beckoned to him.  Forngíliath grinned down at his companion.  "I shall wait for you, Gimli," the young Elf told him. 

            Gimli nodded his thanks, then shifted his axe to his other shoulder and made his way toward the gathering of Elven rulers.  As he drew near, he marveled all the more at Galadriel's beauty; the stars' soft gleam served to accentuate her fair skin, just as the firelight danced gaily across her golden hair.  Celeborn's gaze was warm and welcoming, and Thranduil gave the Dwarf a reserved nod of salutation.  "Good morning, Master Gimli," Celeborn said in greeting.

            The Dwarf allowed his axe to slip from his shoulder, then planted its hilt on the ground and bowed low.  "Good morning, my Lords and Lady."

            "We shall not burden you with prolonged farewells, Gimli, for the night is waning and your errand is one of haste," Galadriel said softly.  "Nor have I any further gift to bestow upon you, except the blessing of the Lady of the Galadhrim, if such words yet retain worth in these latter days."

            "They do indeed, my Lady," Gimli replied.  "Surely there will never be a Dwarf so honored as I, if Galadriel would but grant me her favor ere I depart."

            The Lady smiled, and it was as though the Sun's first morning ray shone down upon the Dwarf, warm and brilliant, though the Daystar's fiery disc was not yet seen over the hilltops.  "That favor you have in full measure, Gimli son of Glóin.  I name you _Hadh'orë-Findakáno, the Dwarf of Fingon's heart; for your spirit shines with the radiance of Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in days of old, he who defied the Black Hand and rescued Maedhros Fëanor's son from his torment upon the face of Thangorodrim.  May your cause meet with like success, friend of Legolas."_

            Gimli bowed to her once more, and could hardly speak with the depth of his emotion.  "I thank you, fairest Lady."

            Celeborn spoke then, his voice low and kind.  "Be not forlorn at this second departure, son of Glóin.  So long as I remain in these lands, you shall be ever welcome in the Golden Wood; and if in time your spirit chafes at sore trial, this will be a place of haven for you, if you wish it."  He spread his hands, palms facing upwards, in a gesture of benediction.  "_Nai Vardo alata cala tenn'tie le pella, Hadh'orë-Findakáno, Elf-friend, Gimli of the Dwarves."_

            The Dwarf found himself suddenly overcome by the Elven sovereigns' kind words, and he tried to quell the mist gathering in his eyes.  "Stars shine on you, my Lord," he said hoarsely.

            The Lord of the Wood smiled.  "And on you, Master Gimli."  Celeborn's silveron eyes slid to regard Thranduil, who had watched the exchanges in silence.  Gimli followed very little of the ensuing dialogue, for the Celeborn spoke to the Elvenking in the fair tongue of their folk; the only word that the Dwarf recognized was the name of Legolas, which was mentioned some few times.

            At length Thranduil inclined his head and murmured something to Celeborn, then turned his firelit gaze to Gimli.  "The stars grow dim in the sky, Master Gimli, for the day is nigh.  Take your place among the warriors, and we shall go forth."

            "Yes, my Lord," Gimli replied deferentially.  He lifted his axe to his shoulder once more, and looked his last upon the fair sovereigns of the Wood.  "Fare you well, my Lord and Lady," he said.  

            Celeborn gave a solemn nod in response; Galadriel's smile had faded, but her eyes shone with warmth.  "_Namárië, Lock-bearer."_

            Their words were ended then, and Gimli began to turn away.  He paused, however, when he caught sight of the two silent figures standing some distance behind the Lord and Lady.  Nimfëalórien and Líssulma stood side-by-side, eyes sparkling dimly in the torchlight, and their expressions were somber but kind.  The two nodded to the Dwarf, and Gimli returned the gesture with no small gratitude.  He also noted, with some amusement, that Nimfëalórien's fingers were loosely intertwined with the lady's.  Gimli smiled into his beard and raised a hand briefly in farewell.  His friends did likewise, smiles breaking over their faces despite their attempts to remain solemn at the Dwarf's departure.

Gimli turned and moved to rejoin Forngíliath—the Elf had waited for his Dwarven companion to return, as he had said he would.  As the two made their way through the ranks of the warriors, Gimli was surprised to see that the Elves gave way before him, some touching their hands to their hearts or brows in salute as he passed.  The Dwarf questioned Forngíliath on the matter when they had reached their position.

            "All heard the blessings bestowed upon you by the Lord and Lady," Forngíliath murmured in reply, wonder gleaming in his gray eyes.  "To be named for Fingon Fingolfin's son is a great honor indeed, and one worthy of esteem, Gimli."

            Gimli did not know what to say in response, and so he held his peace as the warriors around him shifted, awaiting their king's command to proceed.  Thranduil's deep voice rang out over the ranks, neatly splicing the morning chill with fluid words, and the host fell into swift step.  Gimli watched the booted feet of the Elf directly in front of him in order to determine his own stride, for he did not wish to fall out of rhythm with those around him.  He swiftly established his pace—and was only slightly annoyed to note that for every step the Elves took, his own shorter legs were forced to compensate with two steps.

"Good morning, Master Gimli, Forngíliath," came a soft voice from the right, interrupting Gimli's disgruntled musing.

Gimli looked up, mildly surprised.  "Good morning, Melereg," he replied, recognizing his guide and translator from the previous night.  "Were your dreams kind to you?"

Melereg Melannûnion looked down at the Dwarf, startled.  "Yes, Gimli, they were," he answered, his cascade of dark braids spilling over his shoulders as he tilted his head in puzzlement.  "Tell me, where did a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain learn such Elvish courtesies?"

Gimli grinned behind his beard.  "One must know these things when forced to share the company of such pretentious Elves as the prince of Mirkwood."

Forngíliath clucked his tongue, but a smile crept onto his fair face.  "I would take care with my words concerning Prince Legolas, Master Dwarf.  He is well-loved by his people."

Gimli snorted, encouraged by Forngíliath's good-humored expression, and replied, "I cannot see why.  He is among the most prissy, overbearing creatures I have ever met."

Melereg's dark brows knitted.  "Prissy?" he echoed.

Forngíliath laughed aloud.  "I should like to know what our prince's reply would be if he heard you describe him so, Gimli," he remarked.

"He has heard it, many times," Gimli stated matter-of-factly, "and I seem to recall him making various demeaning remarks about my height and mental ability.  'If I am prissy, then you are mulish, underdeveloped, and lead-footed, Master Dwarf,' and other such drivel."

Melereg shook his head in exasperation, causing his braids to dance about his face.  "It is a wonder you were able to gain each other's friendship at all."

"Those words were exchanged in the friendliest manner, I assure you," Gimli chuckled.  "We never intended true affront."

The three companions continued to converse as the host moved beyond the outer reaches of the Golden Wood.  Gimli noted the last few mallorn boughs as he passed beneath them, and in his heart he bade final farewell to the Lady and her forest sanctum.  The sky stretched above the warriors of Mirkwood, a deep expanse of shadowed indigo yet flecked with white points of light.  The Sun would soon peep over the land and banish the stars from sight, but Gimli judged that another hour or so would pass ere the first morning light was glimpsed.

"Tell me, my friends," Gimli said at length, "what is the look of the land?  I can see very little besides Elven heads and legs at the moment, and I would know what country we pass through."

Forngíliath's usual smile blossomed, and he cast his gray gaze out over the surrounding warriors.  "The land is covered in night's darkness yet, Master Gimli, but there is little to be commented upon.  To the rear is the golden crown of Lothlórien; to the fore is naught but grass and sky, though we shall come within sight of the forest of Fangorn ere night falls.  When the Sun rises, I will likely see the faintest shimmer of the Anduin to the east, and the west will be marked by the Misty Mountains."

"My thanks, Forngíliath," the Dwarf replied.  "It seems that you and Melereg are to be my eyes as well as my voice."

Melereg quirked one brow.  "Just so long as we do not have to serve as your legs, Master Dwarf," he remarked drolly.

Gimli gave a short bark of laughter.  "Nay, there will be no need of that, Master Elf."  He noted that Melereg was fastening a length of leather to his right forearm, wrapping it about his rune-scribed leather bracing and tying it fast.  When he questioned the Elf about the extra covering, Melereg gave a slight smile and lifted his eyes to the lightening sky above them.

"You shall see very soon, Gimli," he murmured warmly.  

Forngíliath touched Gimli's arm surreptitiously.  "He waits for his lady," the young Elf muttered with a sly grin.

Melereg shot his fellow warrior an annoyed glance, but made no reply.  Instead, he turned his attention back to the sky, and after but a moment's contemplation, he placed his fingers to his lips and gave a trilling, two-toned whistle.

Before Gimli could form further query, the sound of wings beating the air reached his ears, and a feathery shape descended to perch on Melereg's outstretched arm.  The bird's talons dug into the leather wrapped round the Elf's sleeve, and as it settled into place, Gimli saw that it was a woodland owl with dappled brown feathers and a pale underbelly.  The creature's white face was shaped somewhat like an apple, with two large eyes glittering brightly in the flickering torchlight.

Melereg spoke a few words to the owl, then looked back down at Gimli.  "Gimli, this is Ramíril."

The Dwarf studied the bird for a long moment before speaking.  "Your lady?" he asked finally.

Melereg glared at Forngíliath, who was biting his lip to restrain his laughter.  "Nay," he answered.  "She is a good companion of sorts.  My younger brother inadvertently wounded her during archery practice one day, and I tended her until her wing healed.  I set her loose among the trees, but she sought me out that evening before taking to her nightly hunt."  The Elf flashed a brief smile as Ramíril captured one of his long braids in her hooked beak.  "She comes to me with the rising and setting of the Sun, in order that she might keep herself apprised of my doings; though she keeps her own counsel on such matters."

Gimli harrumphed into his beard.  "Elves and beasts," he grumbled.  "I shall never understand this fascination with such creatures."

"She is a lovely creature," Melereg murmured, lightly stroking Ramíril's ruffled white breast.  "She will soon go to her rest, but she will find us once more when the Sun sinks low this eve."

"Do you intend to take her into battle, then, Melereg?" Forngíliath asked.  

The other Elf gave his fellow a severe glance.  "Nay," he replied.  "I told her to stay in the Greenwood, but she followed nonetheless.  I can do very little to hinder her as yet, but be assured, I will not allow her to fly free if battle rages about us."

"You told her?" Gimli repeated with some exasperation.  "Firstly the horse understands Forngíliath's words, and now Melereg gives directives to a bird.  Do rocks understand Elven speech as well?  Or perhaps trees?"

"Rocks, no," Forngíliath answered, chuckling cheerily, "but the trees both speak and listen, for they are perceptive and full of memory."

To this, Gimli would only give a snort in response.  He did, however, remember well that Legolas had often paused to touch the trees of Lothlórien, smiling enigmatically and whispering beneath his breath at odd moments.  The Dwarf shook his head, utterly convinced that he had fallen in with the most peculiar people ever to walk the earth.  

Melereg spoke softly to Ramíril in his own tongue, and Gimli nudged Forngíliath.  "I hesitate to ask this, Forngíliath, for I am not altogether certain that I wish to know the answer," the Dwarf muttered.  "Does Legolas regularly make conversation with dumb beasts in this fashion?"

Forngíliath tilted his head slightly in thought.  "The woodland and her creatures favor those of the House of Oropher," he said, quirking a small grin.  "Trees, beasts and birds alike hearken to them best, and the king's children were taught from youth to value the forest and all that lived within.  Prince Legolas has been known to chatter with the birds in the trees as merrily as though he had sprouted wings himself.  Too, in his youth he kept company with creatures of all sorts, such as the small squirrels that frequented the boughs near the palace, and spider younglings as well."  For some reason, the Elf chuckled aloud, then continued, "Ah, Gimli, you asked whether Legolas spoke to animals, and I must tell you truthfully that very few among our people are as familiar with the tongues of plants and beasts as are the prince and his kith."

Gimli gave a low groan.  "Marvelous," he grunted.  "I travel with Elves that speak to beasts, in order to bring freedom to another Elf that speaks to beasts, and I suppose he will also thank the grass he walks upon when he is set loose upon it!"

            Forngíliath's smile dimmed.  "I should hope so, Master Dwarf," he murmured, casting his gaze to the lightening horizon.  "I should dearly hope so."

            They said no more for long minutes afterward.  Ramíril took flight once more and departed into the early morning gloom, leaving Melereg to unbind the leather from his arm and stow it in a small pouch at his belt.  The Elf glanced at Forngíliath, but seeing his fellow warrior's uncharacteristically pensive countenance, he remained silent.

            The host continued their journey swathed in the stillness of dawn on the plain; the twitters and hums of birds and insects were but a steady thrum in the calm, hardly the clamor that had filled the trees of Lórien.  Quiet Elvish melodies, soft and strange, lingered among the warriors, twining and ebbing with threaded harmonies.  The Sun crested the hills with her usual splendor, and the glistening golden beams were met with appreciative murmurs as the shadows of evening fled.  True, the Firstborn were ever creatures of starlight; and most especially the Elves of the Woodland Realm, who revered the night as a glittering altar to Elbereth, the Lady of the Stars.  Yet the creatures and workings of Shadow cowered beneath the Sun alone of the great lights, and for that boon the Elves blessed Anor when she appeared in the east.

            As he walked, Gimli listened to the Elves around him singing softly in their own tongue.  Melereg's voice floated nearby, weaving a simple harmony.  Forngíliath was markedly silent for much of the time.  The rhythmic monotony of the march allowed Gimli to lose himself for a time in thoughts of the past: he thought mostly of his own home and kin, but his mind was persistently drawn to memories of his dear friend.  Legolas had been endlessly light of heart, seeming to dance across the land instead of walking, never laden with gloom nor troubled by fear.  It occurred to the Dwarf that his friend was as unlike Galadriel and her equals as was Thranduil, if not more so.  _Legolas is young in the sight of the Elves, and he is not yet weary of the world and its ills, Celeborn had said.  Gimli sighed in dour consideration.  Like Forngíliath, he too held the desperate hope that his friend's spirit would fly unfettered once again, and that Legolas would indeed cheerily greet the grass._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            End of Chapter Nineteen.  Yes, I know it's a teeny little thing, hardly what one would expect after _two months of waiting for an update (Katharine drops to her knees and begs for forgiveness); but I had a choice here, to either make everyone wait __longer and deliver a mega-monster chappie in which all of the Gimli-and-the-Elves plot bits were developed at once, or to end this one here and get straight to the next one—which, by the bye, __will be the last chapter before we get back to Eastfold with the Renewed Fellowship, and poor, poor Frodo.  *Sob/snicker*_

            Expect Chapter Twenty to turn up much more quickly than this one did!  The muses have granted me their assistance once more!  ^_^  

**Name notes (yes, both of them are animals, laugh all you want):**

1) _Anarokko (Horse of Mirkwood; did not especially take to Gimli, but carried his tent anyway) =  this name is a Quenya derivative that literally means "gift-horse."  Yes, Katharine is attempting a silly pun here; Gimli may not have been literally looking Anarokko in the mouth, but you get the idea.  ^_^_

2) _Ramíril (Owl of Mirkwood, sometime companion of Melereg) = this name is a Quenya derivative that means "lady wing."  See notes below on why she is __not a Marty-Stan hallmark._

**Why Ramíril, Melereg's owl, is _not _****a Marty-Stan hallmark:**

1) She is not pink, purple, turquoise, silver, gold, or any combination of the above; she is a plain brown and white owl (kudos and a Keebler cookie if you can guess what type of owl she is!).  

2) She chows down on rodents and cute little bunnies like any proper owl, not sugar or nectar or any of the other crap MS animals get fed.  Oh, and she doesn't eat her furry little mammalian Happy Meals from Melereg's hand, either; she goes out and slaughters her food on her own.

3) She does not shapeshift.  

4) She does not speak.  Ever.

5) She was not a gift from a wizard.  

6) She has no magical powers whatsoever.  

7) She has not been with Melereg since his birth, which would be weird anyway because owls don't traditionally live thousands of years.  

8) She does not engage in battle on Melereg's behalf.  

9) She does not deliver messages.  

10) In short, she does not perform any really useful function.  

11) She.  Is.  Just.  An.  Owl.

**A few updates and general ramblings:**

For any HASA members who are the slightest bit interested in engaging Katharine in quasi-conversation about TWW, here's a bit of news: I recently created a leetle forum at HASA's site for the tale.  It's under the _Stories category.  Feel free to drop a note in with any questions, comments, complaints, etc. etc. etc.  Who knows?  I might decide to hand out itsy bitsy spoilers from time to time!  (Shh, Spoiler Queens Ara and Drew, don't breathe a peep to ANYONE!!  ^_^)  _

In other news, in case anyone wasn't aware of it, I'm currently writing a piece in collaboration with the lovely Madame TreeHugger.  It is _Uncommon Tales: Tales of the Jade King, which can be found here at my corner of FF.net.  If you haven't checked that out, please do so, and remember to leave a review telling us what you think!  It is muy bueno, in my humble estimation!  Full of Li'l Legolas cuteness and yummy Thranduil goodness!  (^_~ at JastaElf)_

Many thanks to _everyone who conspired to get that lousy TWW ripoff story kicked off of the site—do you know the authoress of that painful thing actually sent me the second chapter of her ripoff and threatened to post the story elsewhere?  O_O  *shudder*  She's being extraordinarily unkind about the whole business.  Please, if anyone sees that horrid piece lurking in any other corners of the Net, PLEASE let me know!_

Woohoo for _The Two Towers; I went to the second showing—at 12:10 AM on the night of the 17th/morning of the 18th—dressed up as a Nazgûl!  I can't say I was very pleased by the portrayal of Faramir (he was mm-mm good and all that, but the Faramir in the book was a lot smarter—disdaining to take the Ring, y'know), or by the hacking at Elrond's character (c'mon, "Do I not also have your love?" was such a low blow!), but all the same it was a __thrill to watch.  I complained about Haldir being at Helm's Deep right up until I saw him in that wine-red cloak, and then I got over it.  Until he died.  I think I'll send a threatening note to PJ about the evils of killing off all the cool people (*glares at George Lucas*—Qui-Gon was my fave).  Five billion cheers, though, for __all of the Rohirrim!  Éomer, Éowyn, Théoden, Gríma, and everybody else was spot-on!  Magnificent, I say!_

Also, just in case anyone wanted to know (which I really doubt), I recently had the distinct cringing pleasure of watching _The Adventures of Priscilla: Queen of the Desert three times in a row.  Hugo Weaving makes an astonishingly unattractive woman.  *Blech*  I'll never see Lord Elrond the same way again…  (Heinous giggle)_

As always, thankee muchly for reading; please review, even if it's just to yell at me about taking so long to update!  

Next chapter…Gimli's travels with the Elves continue, we see fireside chatter á la Mirkwood, and the gang meets up with an old friend…


	20. Junctures, Part 4

**Title:** The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Twenty

**Summary:** If you've been reading thus far, you know what it's all about.  If not, you may want to go back and start at the beginning, because I have well and truly messed things up in this A/U…

**Notes:** This is now completely A/U, and has elements of the books and the movies within.  

**Disclaimer:** Though this story has digressed to an absurd degree from the original Trilogy, it is still operating under the rules and within the environs set down by Master Tolkien, the genius who masterminded the whole enchilada.  Bottom line: it ain't mine.  All props to the Great Man.

**Further notes:** My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, "The Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the _Fellowship of the Ring _movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, the _Two Towers_ movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  

**Replies to reviews: **Holy COW, you people sure do read and review quickly!  Many of the replies were up only a few days after I posted the chapter!  ^_^  A million bazillion thankees to every single reader, whether you reviewed or not; you are all fantastic!  (By the way, this chapter's reviews broke last chapter's record—THANK YOU REVIEWERS!!!)

Miss Cam: Why, Madame Cam, what a pleasure it is to see you here!  I'm delighted to hear that you're enjoying my little venture!  Of course, OFUM remains the supreme fanfiction authority on canonical justice and accuracy...heh heh heh… ^_~  Me?  Knock Hugo in a dress?  Never!  Actually, I rather suspect that Lord Elrond wears a _Rocky Horror Picture Show Tim Curry outfit under his stately robes.  Elves in Black, indeed.  ^_^  Mmm, black leather…_

Drow: Hello and welcome!  Thanks for the compliments, and about Gimli and the birds…you are correct!  I adore _The Hobbit, of course, and you are totally right about the Dwarves and the ravens.  Gimli's reactions in Chapter Nineteen, though, were more in response to the Elves talking to __everything—birds, horses, trees, etc.  I think any Dwarf would find that habit a mite peculiar, eh?  _

TreeHugger: Ah, nin melaglar!  A speedy and lengthy review, as always!  *Huge grin*  Never fails to make me smile!  Hey, the yelling thing was _figurative_, y'know…but it's all good, since you did incriminate yourself right after the yelling.  ^_~  Oh yes, Gimli can certainly charm his way into certain Elvish graces…but as you will see in chapters to come, some of the OCs have very distinct and not-so-happy reasons for being nice to our fave Dwarf.  Yep, Thranduil is tasty.  Right with ya on that one.  Hmm, about the TTT "homage"…see the **Further other notes under all of the replies.  As for Frodo…*wicked cackle*  I say nada.  ^_~  Thankee, thankee, and please forgive my lack of reviews on your fabulous yuletide piece—it was beautiful and touching (poor Brethil…bad Tree, bad Tree!), and I'll review it, I promise, with lots of gushing!!  *I am suddenly made aware that I have no room to holler—lookit what I do to all my poor OCs!***

Enigma Jade: Hey there!  I hope the muse-gods hear your prayers; I can't write a blessed thing without the dear muses!  O_O  Yeah, I like that line, too.  Thanks for the compliments about the banter—it seems to be pretty well-received so far!  ^_^

HaloGatomon: Yo, thankee muchly for all of the comments; I'm so pleased you're enjoying!  And _kawaii…hm, I think I'm going to add that to my list of Great Words™, which includes such wonderful words as __snerk (courtesy Miss Cam),  _dodecahedropolar_ (courtesy LadyJea and myself), and _trabajabamos_ (which means "we would have worked" in Spanish).  ^_^  Er, uh… *cringes under Miss Cam's warning stare* …Hugo is lovely.  Even if he is wearing Tammy Faye Bakker makeup and a Chiquita Banana chick outfit.  *shudders*_

Daphne: Hello again!  So glad to have picked up another faithful reader/reviewer!  And your four-word review for Chapter Fourteen is priceless: "Go Gimli, go Gimli…"  Bweheheh!  Oh, and _The Adventures of Priscilla: Queen of the Desert is a fabulous Australian film starring Hugo Weaving, Terrence Stamp, and Guy Pearce as drag queens traipsing about in the Australian outback.  It's a scream.  ^_^_

Badger Lord: CONGRATULATIONS, you just won the kudos and a Keebler cookie!!!  I'll have them FedExed immediately!  ^_~  Yes, Ramíril is a plain, ordinary barn owl, as you so aptly guessed.  And yep, the animals are just animals, no talking or any of that junk.  Thanks for the review, and I'm glad you like!

Niphrandl: You've been checking _daily??  Holy potato, talk about pressure… ^_~  I'm pleased and honored to have been able to inject a little joy into your day.  I wish I could do more…  I hope this chapter finds you hale and whole, and untroubled by the sorrows you spoke of in your review._

Taylor: Hey, and welcome to TWW's cult!  *cheery laugh*  I was tickled pink to read your description of the hours wearing on as you read this li'l tale—what a hoot!  Thanks for reading and enjoying so thoroughly!  Ah, your complaint regarding the fate of Legolas and your agonized worry is a common one, I assure you… but unfortunately, I am at liberty to say very little on the subject, for fear of spilling too many beans before their time.  Don't worry, though, _everyone_ is going to get spotlight in due time, and all plot threads will be resolved.  Just wait till I get to Rohan…ha HA!  ^_^

JastaElf: *falls on the floor laughing at the Star Trek reference*  Ha, you are so _right about that!!  The red shirt always died before the first commercial break, for cryin' out loud!  Thankfully, Haldir survived a little longer; he was such a Hershey kiss—even came with a foil wrapper!  ^_^  Thanks for all the praise; truly, it cheers me right up!  And, as I said to Taylor, Legolas will get his time in the spotlight, but as to when he will reappear…hmm…look for that in Chapter Twenty-One.  *evil grin*  JK being ground out, don't worry… as is DLCS, although understandably at a slower rate (must get everything _just so_ for that one, y'know?).  Oh, and as I said to TH, my _extreme_ apologies for the lack of reviewing on your yuletide piece; it, too, is gorgeous, and I wept to read it…shall review soon, cross my heart and hope Thranduil comes knocking on my door with flowers sometime!  ^_^  (Oh wait, he already _did…_ and now I have to come up with the Joke That Does Not Exist™.  Darn.)_

Lady Raine: Welcome to my little corner of the site, Madame!  *sigh*  Yeah, poor Thranduil gets such a bad rap from people.  It's disgusting.  A personal pet peeve of mine, as many of those who deal with me know well.  I have made it my personal mission to give our favorite Elvenking as good a showing as is humanly possible—see _Tales of the Jade King_ for more Thranduil-goodness á la Katharine and TreeHugger (another Thranduil-fan who is collaborating with me on that story).  Also, for other Thranduil-yummies, check out almost everyone on my fave lists; JastaElf's "Leaf and Branch" and "Dark Leaf," nearly all of TreeHugger's work, Soledad's "Little Bird," and Nilmandra's "May the Valar Protect Them" are just a few stories that come to mind.  Thanks for all of the accolades; they are well and truly appreciated!  About Sam…you're the first person to really ask about him and the affect the Ring will have on him!  Congratulations for picking up on a crucial plot point!  ^_^  About Legolas and Frodo, my lips are mostly sealed.  Will the ending be happy?  Depends on how you look at it… *evil cryptic snicker*

AmaterasuKami: *boggles*  One of the best on the site?  Whoa…that's an enormous compliment, and not one to take lightly… *panics*  Hope this chapter lives up to that!  ^_~  Oh, and thanks for the no-rush thing—muchly appreciated, I assure you.

Seaweed: _Hadh'orë-Findakáno_ was actually Fingon's idea!  I was originally going to have Galadriel name Gimli _Hadh'orë-Findaráto—"the Dwarf of Finrod's heart," in reference to Finrod's sacrificing his life to save Beren's—but Fingon came up and tapped me on the shoulder, pointing out that he did something perfectly heroic, too!  I was only too happy to oblige, seeing as how, yes, Maedhros _did_ lose his hand when he was rescued, and I figured that anyone who loses an appendage like that deserves a mention, eh?  ^_^  Thanks for the compliments, as always…and **_bzzzt_, nope, sorry, Ramíril is not an eagle owl, she's a barn owl.  ^_~  But here's a kudo anyway, just for reviewing!  *Kate wonders if "kudo" is the singular form of "kudos"***_

eressëhína: Welcome, welcome, glad you're enjoying!  One question…how do you translate your pen name?  I only ask because, as you might have noticed, I am fascinated by language usage and name translation!  I tried translating it myself, and came up with _er_, meaning "alone" in Sindarin, _essë_, meaning "name" in Quenya, and _hína, which is pretty close to __híni, meaning "children" in Quenya.  What is your figurative translation, if I might ask?  Anyhoo, thanks for all the praises…heh, 1:30 AM is pretty late, but my normal bedtime is, oh, 4 AM or so.  ^_~  And wow!  O_O  My diction almost rivals Master Tolkien's?  *stunned silence*  Thanks!!_

Salak: Ah, there you are!  ^_^ Aye, I be back, and sorry about the wait!  Glad to see you're still with me on this!

ZonyBone: Another newbie!  Woohoo!  Welcome to TWW!  Ah, the universal line-up of questions and requests… Hm, well, most of the answers are still top-secret, but to go in order: Lasselanta is scheduled for a cameo next chapter; Gimli and Legolas may or may not meet, can't say just yet; Legolas may or may not be saved from his fate, that's still up in the air; and Frodo's in for a heck of a time, that's all I'll say.  *wicked cackle*  Oh, I'm so asking for flames here…  ^_^  Thanks for reading and reviewing!

FalconWind: I like your new nick!  And… CONGRATULATIONS to you as well, you just won more of the kudos and Keebler cookies!!!  Yep, Ramíril is a barn owl, as you and Badger Lord guessed!  ^_^

White Wolf: Hi, and welcome to my li'l cult following!  *snicker*  Thanks for all of the compliments; they warmed my icy little heart right up!  ^_~  I'm glad you'll be around till the end—it's a looooong way off, so bring some trail mix!  ^_^

Hiro-tyre: Hey hey!  *boggles at the imagery*  Whoa…icky.  O_o  *skitters off to write more, lest Hiro-tyre sends the Army of the Dead after me*  Yeeek!  An excellent presentation of threats and impending curses, though—written like a true Tolkien geek!  ^_~  Welcome to the club!

Laura M: Welcome back!  Hong Kong, my bad.  ^_~  Heh, I ain't sayin' nothin' about poor Frodo, but I can tell you that he has a cameo in the next chapter.  ^_^  Although it may not be a very happy one.  Anyhoo, I'm glad you enjoyed your holiday, and that you actually _did_ get to sight-see, despite my machinations here!  And your comment about loving TWW's Gimli more than any other version almost made me cry.  I'm so incredibly honored!  Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Kekio: Hello there, and welcome to my corner of the site!  Ah, Gimli is cool, yes, and I love writing for him.  I wasn't actually a fan of his until I started writing for him, but now, of course, he holds a special place in my shriveled little heart.  Aye, some Dwarves talk to ravens, true…but Gimli's reaction is more due to the Elves' strange habit of talking to _everything_—trees, bugs, birds, etc.—than to just Ramíril.  And thanks for the compliment about my writing for Thranduil; I do so love him!  ^_^

LadyJea: *squeal*  You're back!!  But so far away!  *_*  No fair… anyhoo, glad to see ya!  Ah, I'm usually way too lazy to sign in, too.  *shrug*  All the chocolate and steak must be getting to me.  ^_~  *gathers up kudos*  Oooh… kudos… *suddenly wonders what the heck a "kudo" really is*  Yep, you know most of it, so SHHHH!!!  ^_^  Or I shall send Thundril after you, grasshoppa!

Raen: Hey!  Thanks for all the compliments; Gimli has become a fave of mine, since I've been writing so much recently for him.  But…I, too, am glad to be getting back to everyone else; there's only so much Dwarf-Elf banter one can write before it gets old!  O_o  Heh, and here's a handful of kudos for you, you cheeky thing; yes, Ramíril is a _female owl.  ^_~_

Cheysuli: Hi, and welcome!  *thinks*  Have you been here before…?  Can't remember.  *blushes*  Anyway, thanks for dropping the note!  In answer to your semi-query: a Marty-Stan hallmark is any sign of a Marty-Stan in a story.  A Marty-Stan is the male version of a Mary-Sue.  A Mary-Sue is the equivalent of a demon.  ^_~ Hope you liked the "old friend"!

Crystal Cat: Welcome, welcome, especially to one who was unsure!  I totally understand; the plotline _is_ a little out of the ordinary.  I'm tickled pink to hear that you're enjoying it so much, though!  *big grin*  And oh, yes, things are going to really heat up in a few chapters…can anyone say "Helm's Deep á la Katharine"?  I, too, am a character torturer, evil thing that I am, but as to the final fate of our dear Bishy (great word, there!), well, I shan't say anything at this point.  Gimli, ah, dear Dwarf!  Isn't he great?  Too great to get so little screen time!  *pouts*  Thanks for all the praise!  Note: yep, the Elf at HD in the movie was Haldir, march warden or whatever of Lórien.  He wasn't even supposed to _be there, much less die there.  You're right, it totally sucked that he died…but, you have to admit, he was _mighty_ tasty while he lasted!  ^_^_

Irena: Heh.  How indeed?  ^_^  Thanks for your reviews; they mean a lot to me, especially because I hold you in such high esteem.  *begs on hands and knees for more Femme Legolas*

Salsify: *grin*  Welcome to my corner!  *snickers*  I'll bet the keyboard left an interesting indentation in your nose, eh?  Thanks for the compliments regarding Celeborn and Gimli.  I have made it my _mission in this fic to give the ignored characters a heap of attention, mostly because I can.  And… ding ding ding!  CONGRATULATIONS for being the third person to correctly guess that Ramíril is a barn owl!  *hands over more kudos and Keebler cookies*  Woo!_

Mage Legacy: Hello, and as I've said a lot this reply session, welcome to TWW!  I am a big fan of light-dark imagery, and I try to employ it to the max degree, especially when dealing with Lasselanta, who, though evil and dark now, is clad in bright robes.  And *sigh* I'm so glad Anarokko acted realistically…I don't have any horses, never have, so I was pretty much guessing.  O_o  Thanks, and I hope you continue to enjoy!

Jez: *big huge grin* HI!!!  Haven't heard from you in a while!  How's life?  Yeah, your sis keeps telling me about the problems with the compy.  *sigh*  Sucks to be you, hon.  ^_~  Glad to see you, though.  Tell your parents I said hi!  (and post something, darn it!)  ^_^

**Further other notes:** TreeHugger raised an interesting question concerning the impact the LOTR movies are having on this tale, and I felt compelled to reply in a separate segment.  The Notes sections for every chapter since the beginning have stated that _The Weeping Wraith has elements of the books __and the movies within, although I suppose I should clarify what I mean by that.  TWW is set primarily in bookverse, mainly because the wealth of information and background to be had in the books far surpasses that of the movieverse, but also because TWW is an A/U of Master Tolkien's original work—not Peter Jackson's reinterpretation/reorganization of that work.  Granted, PJ has done a magnificent job thus far—despite the changes and oddities, he has remained true to the books' spirit for the most part, and the movies are wonderful on their own merit—but TWW is, as I said, an A/U of Master Tolkien's tale; thus, I refer mostly to his work.  _

Where do the movie elements come in?  They are sprinkled throughout the tale, but mostly have to do with visual references.  When I think of Gimli, I think of the superb portrayal by John Rhys-Davies; I hear his voice speaking the dialogue, see his facial expressions, and observe his range of movement.  Similarly, my mental images of most of the other principal canon characters will fit those given in the movies.  However, they take their cues from their counterparts in the books, and characteristics given in the books are overlaid onto their movie selves.  

There is also a fair amount of "Kateverse," so to speak.  Things that are not heavily described by Master Tolkien and are not touched on in the movies are filled in with whatever makes logical sense to me.  Examples of Kateverse include things such as the notion that Rivendell has an eastern Guardianship, of which Alcarin is the head—that's mine, my own, and has no real basis in the literature.  Legolas' family members, except Thranduil and Oropher, are entirely my creations.  The "cold trance" a Nazgûl victim falls into before attaining wraith-hood and Celeborn's _tithen celebyrn_ are two other samples of Kateverse.  

Of course, there are points where the lines between movieverse, bookverse, and Kateverse become rather blurred; for instance, when I describe Caras Galadhon, the scenery is a combination of the movie's representation, Master Tolkien's vision as presented in the books, and my own imagination.  Lord Celeborn himself is also a blending of the three 'verses—he looks mostly like he did in the movie, only _more_ fair and ethereal; he speaks like he did in the books (I hope); and as I said before, his little silver trees and the peace he made with Gimli are mine mine MINE!  ^_^

Now, to add even more confusion to the muddle, I'm also prone to borrow concepts and/or tidbits from other LOTR fanfiction universes, as subtle mini-homages to authors whose works I admire.  Examples?  I've called Thranduil _aran brannon a few times; that's a tip of the hat to JastaElf, with whom the phrase originated (as far as I know, anyway).  I've mentioned young Legolas' fascination with spiders and squirrels—a reference to TreeHugger's stories.  Gimli's character has been heavily influenced by such authors as Thundera Tiger, Ithilien, and yes, Camilla Sandman (Lina and Gimli are just _fabulous,_ Miss Cam!).  **_But…_ I have never and shall never outright "borrow" another author's workmanship without his/her permission.  Period.  Okey-doke?  ^_~**_

Whew!  That was quite a long schpiel, eh?  I hope it made some sense.  Bottom line: TWW is mainly bookverse, with scatterings of other universes and references just for spice.  ^_^

Now, on with the tale…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            Gimli stifled a yawn and trudged onward, shaking his head to ward off the cobwebs of weariness being woven about his mind.  Anor had bid her customary vivid farewell to the land some time past, leaving in her wake the deep ebon curtain of nightfall.  The stars flowered icily in the darkness, and Ithil's widening arc shone with a chill luster.  And still the Elves of Mirkwood marched, tireless, the moonlight blenching their pale skin to an eerie pallor.  White glittered at the edges of their spearheads; dark hair was washed to deep blue, and bright Elven eyes glistened silver.

            To the left, Forngíliath was singing softly, and his tune was low and sweet.  Melereg was quiet, breaking his peace only with an occasional hummed note.  The owl Ramíril had come to her Elven companion at sunset, as Melereg had said she would, and had thenceforth flown in search of prey.  Gimli shook his head again at the Elves and their strange ways; surely if the Dwarves had taken time to trade words with every stone and lichen in the deeps of the earth, the great halls of Erebor and Khazad-dûm would never have been completed.  

            A commanding call from up ahead rippled the air over Gimli's head, and he nearly ran into the Elf in front of him as the company came to an abrupt halt.  Shifting back to stand between his compatriots once more, Gimli nudged Forngíliath.  "What is happening?" he asked under his breath.

            "We have stopped," the Elf answered blandly.

            Gimli elbowed his companion in bemused annoyance.  "I can see that, Elf," he muttered.  "_Why_ have we stopped?"

            "Asking Forngíliath for a sincere answer is futile, Master Dwarf," Melereg said with an exasperated glance at his fellow warrior.  "We halt because the _aranhîr_ has chosen this place to camp for the night."

            Gimli was glad for the darkness; he was certain that his expression reflected a goodly amount of his relief.  Dwarves were by nature a hardy people, able to endure much trial and hardship with stout resilience; however, even a Dwarf was glad for rest at the end of a day's labor.  The Elves around him were breaking ranks and going about the business of constructing a camp.  Gimli was surprised, however, to see that instead of pitching the tents, most of the warriors were merely unburdening the horses and laying the folded tents to rest in a stack.

            When he questioned Forngíliath on the matter, the Elf quirked one dark brow and glanced up at the sky.  "We are a people of the stars, Gimli," he said.  "In our dark forest, it would be folly to sleep without shelter; too, in the deeps of Lórien we could not put our rooted fears from us.  But here, in the wide open field, we shall rest in the full light of Elbereth's glory.  If you wish it, Master Dwarf, we shall fix a tent for you, however strange it may seem to us."

            "Nay, nay, good Forngíliath," Gimli answered.  "I was merely curious.  Many nights have I slept without a roof; the night's stars are not unfamiliar to me."

            A spark of fire glinted nearby, and another, and Forngíliath's gray eyes caught the red flames for an instant.  "This will be the last night for fires, I think," he remarked.  "Tomorrow we enter the green Wold of the land of Rohan, and it would not do to be accosted by a company of the Men of that land.  They are strong and fierce, it is said, and their nobility is laced with suspicion.  We will go silent and unseen in that land, if it is possible."

            Gimli nodded his agreement and watched the Elves around him for a few moments.  Many of their number were sitting or lying on the long grasses, gazing up at the stars, speaking or singing with quiet voices.  Some few were breaking _lembas bread together and tipping their water skins to their lips.  The few campfires hosted gatherings of twenty or thirty warriors each, and these shared food and laughter amongst themselves in the flickering light.  Gimli saw only one tent raised; before its entrance stood sentries, and the banner of the Woodland Realm was planted in the earth nearby.  "The king is not so eager to take his rest in the open, it seems," he remarked._

            "'Tis customary for the leader of a company to pitch his tent," Forngíliath answered.  "It provides a center and heart for the rest of the camp.  But the _aranhîr will likely spend most of the night outside, for he too finds great solace and beauty in the stars."  The Elf looked down at Gimli.  "Come, Master Dwarf," he said, a smile flitting across his fair features.  "I believe the others are set to begin."_

Gimli accompanied Forngíliath to a campfire cheerily crackling nearby.  Gathered round it was an assemblage of many dark-haired warriors with gleaming eyes and bright smiles.  The Elves had arranged themselves in a loose circle around the fire, and their ranks parted to allow Forngíliath and his Dwarven companion to join them.  The chatter quieted for a moment as the company noted Gimli's presence.  Gimli, for his part, met the raised brows and questioning murmurs with assertive nods of greeting.

Forngíliath spoke some words in his own tongue to the group, inspiring renewed smiles and a few chuckles from his fellow Elves, then turned back to Gimli with a lopsided smile.  "I asked them whether they learned their manners from a pack of Orcs," he explained.  "Staring is considered quite rude, you know."  One of the others among the warriors called to Forngíliath, and the Elf's grin broadened in response.  "They wish to know your name, Master Dwarf.  A proper introduction is in order, I think."

            Gimli shook his head—Elves were such _strange_ creatures!—and stepped out a short ways from the others.  Planting the hilt of his axe on the grass and bowing shortly, he said, "I am Gimli son of Glóin, from the Lonely Mountain north of your forest."

            Forngíliath translated the words.  "They are satisfied with that," he informed Gimli.  "Come and sit with me now.  Duilin is going to tell a tale, and I shall interpret it for you."  He gave the Dwarf a mischievous grin.  "Also, you owe my fellows and I a tale this evening, so do not be surprised when you are called forth to speak."  

            "Fret not, Forngíliath, I have already chosen such a tale," Gimli muttered, smiling into his beard in anticipation.  He lowered himself to sit on the long grasses and placed his axe across his lap.  

All around the circle, the warriors were settling themselves down; some passed around _lembas and water, while others were content to merely listen.  A lone warrior with dark braids and slender hands stood near the fire, and when quiet had fallen over the company, he began to speak._

"That is Dín Duilin, one of those whom you met on the battlefield of Lórien the day you saved your young friend's life," Forngíliath murmured.  "His swift feet took your message to Mirion."

Gimli did not remember the Elf's face, but then, most Elves looked the same to his untrained eye.  "What is he saying?" he asked in a low tone.

"He says he was out hunting with his younger brother, Sîrethir, and two friends of theirs, some weeks past," Forngíliath explained.  "Listen, this is the tale:

_"One night, the others and I told Sîrethir all manner of eerie tales, some concerning the Lord Tauron of Valinor._"  Forngíliath broke off his interpreting and clarified lowly, "Lord Tauron is a Vala of the West, Gimli, who loves the forest and the hunt.  He used to range across Middle-earth atop his great steed Nahar, seeking and destroying the Dark Lord's creatures."  The Elf then returned to the tale: _"—and when we had finished, Sîrethir's eyes were as large and round as the Moon's full disc, and he asked whether Lord Tauron still frequented the forests of Middle-earth.  I told him, 'Yes, of course he does!  We might even hear his horn one night!  If we do, make sure not to look up, for to see the Great Rider is death—he will carry you off and feed you to the creatures he hunts.'"  The Elves broke into raucous laughter, including Forngíliath, who nearly doubled over with his mirth.  _

Gimli was somewhat confused.  "What is funny about such a fate, Forngíliath?" he asked.

"Ah, Gimli, Lord Tauron would do no such thing," Forngíliath answered with a smile.  "Duilin and his companions said these things only to frighten Sîrethir."

So enlightened, Gimli gave a snort of amusement.  "I see," he said.

Duilin began speaking again, and so did Forngíliath.  _"Of course, Sîrethir did not know otherwise, and he was quite concerned.  'Do you really think we will hear his horn?' he asked, and we told him that we likely would, as it was Lord Tauron's favorite hunting season.  I laid to my rest smiling at Sîrethir's reaction, and thought no more of it._

_"The following night, Eithelion came to me with a plan.  He said that he and Orithil would steal away from the camp near dawn and blow a horn as loudly as they could, and that I should then warn Sîrethir to bury his face in the ground so as not to give even the appearance of attempting to steal a glance at the Great Rider.  Naturally, I agreed, and the plan was set._

_"I rested only lightly that evening, so I was aware when Eithelion and Orithil rose from the ground and slipped into the forest.  I waited, and when the horn sounded, I leaped up and cried out to Sîrethir, 'Wake, little brother, wake!  The Lord Tauron is upon us!'  Sîrethir woke just as the horn gave a mighty blast, and I thought for a moment that he was going to collapse with fright.  Now, I was tempted to halt the ruse out of pity, but then I recalled the stag that Sîrethir had frightened away ere I could bring an arrow to bear upon it.  I said to him, 'Quickly, bury your face in the dirt so he does not think you are looking for him!'  And of course, he did so, even piling dirt atop his head and packing it around his face to completely obscure his vision._

_"Sîrethir did not look up until he heard myself and the others laughing.  I shall never forget watching my little brother trying to get the dirt out of his hair, cursing Eithelion and Orithil and I in not less than three separate tongues.  He has since learned Lord Tauron's true nature from our grandsire, but to this day, Sîrethir jumps at the sounding of a horn."_

The ending of the tale was met by a renewed peal of laughter from the assemblage.  Gimli laughed as heartily as did the Elves around him; he was surprised, in fact, to receive a friendly slap on the shoulder from the unfamiliar warrior to his right.  Dín Duilin, meanwhile, grinned and bowed to his listeners, then settled down amongst his fellows.  

"Are all of your folk full of such mischief, Forngíliath?" Gimli asked, chuckling into his beard.

"Many of us, yes," the Elf replied with an impish grin.  "Did Prince Legolas never relate tales of his own youth?  His various exploits have become legends in the Greenwood."

The Dwarf gave a low harrumph.  "No, he never spoke much of himself.  His speech was reserved mostly for his father and kinfolk—and for the maligning of his Dwarven companion, of course."

Forngíliath gave a light laugh.  "Of course," he agreed.  He glanced at the fire, noting the Elf making his way towards it, and said, "Ah, Cúthalion is set to speak now.  Listen, this is his tale…"

            Thus Gimli was treated to an evening of tales both daring and humorous, ranging from the recounting of especially dangerous battles and hunts, to more light-hearted stories of merriment and mischief.  With each additional speaker, Gimli privately reaffirmed his opinion that Legolas' kinfolk were far more similar to the Dwarves of Erebor than either party would have been pleased to realize.  Gimli himself greatly enjoyed joining his fellow Dwarves for a mug of ale after the day's work was done, and they would sit up into the morning hours trading outrageous tales and jests, much as the Elves apparently did.  One day, he decided, he was going to take Legolas and some of his fellow Elves to a Dwarven feast, where they would experience the joy of Dwarven ale—_and_ the raucous cheer that accompanied such strong drink.  Gimli chuckled to think of his Elven friends' reactions to such unrestrained liveliness.  A snatch of a comment that Legolas had proffered on one occasion floated in the Dwarf's ears, prompting a somewhat muted bout of laughter.  _"'Tis the days of toil beneath the earth, where no Sun or stars can reach their eyes, that have driven the Dwarves mad, good Gimli.  Else how can one explain their strange habit of supporting large amounts of shrubbery upon their faces?"_  Indeed, Legolas would think the Dwarves mad indeed if he could see them at their merrymaking!

            A cheerful voice to the left shook Gimli from his musings.  "'Tis your turn to speak, Master Dwarf," Forngíliath said, wiping tears of mirth from his glinting eyes.  "Come, we are most eager to hear a tale of our prince's travels in your company!"

            Gimli harrumphed into his beard, but stood and made his way to the center.  Forngíliath came to stand beside him, for he would serve as translator.  "Good evening, good Elves of Mirkwood," Gimli began with a slight bow.  The fluidic interpretation rolled easily from Forngíliath's tongue, so swiftly that Gimli did not even have to pause in his own speech for the Elf to keep pace.  "I am told that you desire to hear of your prince's journeys away from his home," the Dwarf continued, leaning on his axe and looking about at the expectant firelit faces.  "I have thought long on this, for there are many tales to be told.  However, I have chosen one that I think is specially appropriate for such an assemblage, and all the more so because of the hour.

            "When the Fellowship first set forth from Rivendell, Legolas and I kept our distance from one another, for we held little trust between us, and still less liking.  I walked behind Gandalf and Aragorn, who led the company, while Legolas and his keen eyes served as rearguard.  The days were cold and sharp; out of the east came the mountains' icy gust with little respite, and though we had been well-appointed by Elrond and his household, the wind drove through our clothing and chilled us all to the bone—save your prince, who alone remained untroubled.  We walked through the nights and slept in the daytime, in order to avoid the prying eyes of the Enemy's spies.  

            "I recall that Legolas insisted on keeping the watch through the first several days, saying, 'You must all rest and regain the strength that the cold has leeched from you, while I have no need of lengthy respite.'

            "Aragorn was not pleased by this arrangement, but he was made to see the reason in it, and so Legolas was the sentry for three or four successive days.  I admit, I was glad for the time in which to rest and thaw my bones, but still I held no more love for your prince than he did for me, and we did not speak save to trade trivial slights.

            "It was on the fourth day, as I recall, that Gandalf insisted Legolas allow another to take the watch.  'For,' said he, 'even the Elves must take some rest, and I see the weariness in your walk, son of Thranduil.'"

            Gimli chuckled with amusement at the remembrance.  "I must say, Legolas was none too pleased by the wizard's observation, but he relented after some deliberation.  Aragorn took half the watch that day, and Boromir of Gondor took the second half.  Legolas settled down with the rest of the Fellowship in the dell that we had chosen for the day's camp.  

            "I was rather ill at ease with the Elf so near, though we took pains to remain at opposing ends of the hollow.  Gandalf smoked his pipe and sat in silence, while Boromir and the hobbits ate a cold meal and laid themselves down on the grass to sleep.  I tried to rest, but Legolas' stare was upon me from the outset, and I could not shake my disquiet.  I had had little experience with Elven stares before then, and so I attributed my unease to Legolas' closeness.  After an hour of enduring the Elf's look, however, I grew weary of it and decided to ask him why in the name of Barazinbar he stared so.

            "I rose from my place and marched across the dell until I stood before him.  He was sitting up with his back against a stone, yet staring, but he did not move at my approach.  'Master Elf,' I said to him, 'surely there are other things in the world that you could stare at thusly!  Why do you level your eyes upon me, as though I were an enemy to be watched closely?'

            "The Elf made no reply, and I thought him to be ignoring my question.  I tapped his foot with the hilt of my axe, and it was then that he exploded into movement, moving so quickly I could scarcely see aught but a whirl of green and gold.  His hand strayed to his knives, but then he seemed to see me, and he glared as fiercely as a hunting eagle.  'You would do well to exercise more care in the future, Master Dwarf,' he said, 'else you may lose your beard to my knife before I can halt its sweep.'

            "Of course, I was yet affronted because of what I perceived to be his discourtesy, and I answered him, 'If you wish me to keep my distance from you, Master Elf, then perhaps you will not stare at me so when we are forced to share a campsite.  It is most irritating, and I will thank you to keep your eyes to yourself.'

            "He looked at me then as though I had gone mad.  'Master Dwarf, I do not know of what you speak,' he told me.  'I would hardly stare at you; I do not even like the knowledge of you, much less the look of you.'"

            Gimli shook his head and laughed to himself again, caught up in the tale.  "I am certain we would have traded blows in due course, had we continued with our speech in such fashion.  But Gandalf intervened, saying, 'Master Dwarf, our Elf friend was not staring at  you; he was merely sleeping in Elf-fashion—with his eyes open as though he were awake, but his mind far away in dreams.'

            "I had never heard of such a thing before, and I was loath to believe it, but Gandalf had spent much time among your folk, and I trusted him far more than I trusted Legolas.  Therefore, I went back to my place and wrapped myself in my cloak, and tried to sleep.  The Elf had turned his sleeping gaze away from me, for which I was glad, but that was not the last time we clashed over the matter…"

            The Dwarf continued to speak, his voice rumbling in the night air, the gravelly timbre overlaid by the smooth speech of Forngíliath as the Elf translated the words.  The assembled warriors listened with rapt attention, smiling at times, breaking into laughter at others, as Gimli related his various altercations with their king's youngest son.  Forngíliath himself had to pause once or twice, so choked was he by mirth.  Gimli smiled as well, feeling far more welcome among his friend's kith than he had felt even beneath the Lady's golden boughs.  The fire snapped and sizzled merrily, and gave off its cheerful yellow light, while the white stars bloomed in their dark vault above, and for a time, the host of Thranduil was given respite from thoughts of war and bloodshed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            Forngíliath roused Gimli early the next morn; but upon seeing the Dwarf's weariness, the Elf said, "Ah, Gimli, I was quite thoughtless, was I not, to keep you awake so late into yesterevening?  I failed to recall that mortals have need of more sleep than do the Elves.  My apologies for your weariness today!"

            Gimli waved one hand dismissively.  "Nay, good Forngíliath, I chose to keep awake last night, and I do not regret doing so.  Truly, the time spent with your cheerful folk was well worth a night's slumber."

            The camp was swiftly dismantled, and ere the Sun broke the hills the company was moving once more.  When the sky began to lighten with dawn's approach, Ramíril the owl returned to Melereg's arm for her morning appointment.  Gimli shook his head bemusedly as the Elf once again conversed with the creature, then loosed her to seek her rest for the day.  

            The host crossed over the trickling Limlight just as the Daystar's disc crested the horizon in a blaze of golden glory.  Gimli was glad that the stream's chill water did not flow deeply enough to spill into his boots and soak his feet, for such would have greatly added to his discomfort during the day's march.  They passed close enough to Fangorn forest's dark, twisted fringes that Gimli could see the tops of the tortured trees over his Elven companions' heads.

            "We pass near to an entirely unwholesome wood, it seems to me," Gimli remarked quietly.  "Forngíliath, Melereg, do you see aught that speaks of life in that place?"

            "'Tis the outermost border of Fangorn," Melereg murmured, gazing at the tangled trees as they passed.  "I hear a low murmuring, as though the wood slumbers deeply and has only wakened briefly to survey us."

            "It is said that life flourishes deep within the forest, Gimli," Forngíliath said.  "Fangorn's lore is filled with trees that speak and sing to each other.  Many of the old songs tell of Yavanna's plea to Manwë on behalf of the trees, and that she thenceforth placed guardian spirits in the hearts of some of the trees that now live hidden within Fangorn's shadows.  They say that those spirits can cause the trees they inhabit to move about, tending the saplings and keeping the wild trees in check."

            Gimli harrumphed.  "Walking trees.  I might have known," he muttered.

            Forngíliath chuckled.  "I do not jest, Gimli," he said with a smile.  "The old songs and tales tell of such things, and I cannot say whether they are fanciful or no.  Yet there are many strange and wonderful things in the wide world, and I do not suppose that either of us has seen them all, or ever will!"

            The dark forest remained at the host's right flank for the entire day's march.  Gimli ignored the uneasiness that shivered up his spine whenever the wind moaned in Fangorn's shadowed crown.  He found himself wishing the Elves around him would sing, even if the tune was soft and delivered in short snatches.  Gimli remembered Legolas' skillful singing in the chill watches of the night.  The Elf's voice had driven away doubt and fear, if only for a short while, and Gimli had come to appreciate that gift.  Yet the Elves were silent save for occasional murmurs, and the Dwarf recalled Forngíliath's remarks of the day before: _"Tomorrow we enter the green Wold of the land of Rohan, and it would not do to be accosted by a company of the Men of that land… we will go silent and unseen in that land, if it is possible."_

            As evening swept nearer, the world began to waver around Gimli, and his weariness became more difficult for him to ignore.  He found himself blinking back to awareness at odd intervals, unable to recall the past few minutes of walking.  On one such occasion, he was shaken to reality by Forngíliath's light touch on his shoulder.  "_Ai, good Gimli," the Elf said softly.  "You are very weary, and I am truly sorry.  You must rest properly tonight."_

            Gimli mustered up a snort for the Elf's benefit.  "Am I no more than a mere babe in your eyes, Forngíliath?  Aye, I am fairly weary, but I have coped with far worse in the past.  As I said to you this morning, I do not regret the loss of sleep in favor of your company."

            Forngíliath gave his Dwarven companion a cheeky smirk.  "Very well, Master Dwarf… but that does little to alter the truth of your previous statement.  You are indeed a babe in our eyes."

            Gimli glared up at Forngíliath.  "Hold your tongue, Elf, or you will make the acquaintance of this babe's preferred plaything."  For emphasis, he moved his axe to the shoulder closest to the impertinent Elf.

            Melereg's exasperated sigh floated over from the right.  "Have you no better use for your tongue, Forngíliath, than to mock and jest?"

            "Perhaps," the other Elf answered puckishly.  "But I reserve my sweeter speech for maidens, rather than expending it on warriors…and owls."

            Gimli stifled his laughter, managing to hold himself to a single choked cough of mirth.  Melereg glared blackly at Forngíliath, but said only, "No maiden with a properly functioning sense of reason could find you amusing for more than a few minutes, Forngíliath."

            "Ah, then all of the maidens in our fair forest are utterly without reason," Forngíliath replied loftily, a smile tugging at his lips.  

            Melereg frowned.  "You boast far too much," he said.  "Master Gimli, you would do well not to accept a single word of conceit from our brash companion's lips as truth—at the least, not until it has been verified by another."

            Gimli chuckled lowly.  "I had gathered as much already, Melereg, but I thank you for your counsel."

            "_Ai, it seems you have fallen prey to the crow's gloomy croaking, Gimli," Forngíliath sighed, clucking his tongue._

            "I am no croaking crow, _young one,_" Melereg answered with an arched brow.  "I am merely far more sensible than is your wont."

            "Am I to understand that you are little more than a babe yourself, Forngíliath?" Gimli asked, smirking into his beard.

            The Elf sniffed dismissively.  "Hardly, Master Dwarf," he returned.  "I carry fewer years than Melereg, truthfully, but I am not so young as he would have you believe." 

            "How many years do you bear, then?" Gimli asked, his curiosity suddenly sparked; he realized that though he knew most Elves to be some centuries his elders, he did not truly know the span of Elven lifetimes.  Legolas had spoken of the deathless nature of his people, but the Dwarf had not completely absorbed the meaning of those words.

            Forngíliath grinned.  "I have marked nearly sixteen centuries since my birth," he said matter-of-factly.

            Gimli blinked in surprise.  "And you, Melereg?" he queried, looking up at the Elf on his right.

            Melereg stared pointedly at Forngíliath.  "Twenty-one centuries have I seen, Master Dwarf."  He then sighed softly, and his tone grew faint, as though he were lost in thought.  "Yet in the sight of the Elves, the years are as drops in the ocean; they pass fleetingly, and little heed is paid to their leaving."

            "That is a notion beyond my reckoning," Gimli remarked, shaking his head.  "We who are mortal count each day—nay, each hour—as it passes, and as the years lengthen we lament their passing ever more.  Legolas and I spoke long on this very matter, and try as we might, we could not come to a resolution, save perhaps this: time is a gift, whether it be lasting by birth or shortened by fate, and should not be wasted."

            Both of his Elven companions looked at him in surprise, and after a moment of silence, Melereg spoke, his voice brimming with wonder.  "You speak as one of the wise, Gimli of Erebor.  Are you certain you are indeed a Dwarf?"

            Gimli smiled behind his beard.  "Quite certain, Melereg.  I suppose I have been too long in the company of long-winded Elves."

            "Mayhap, Master Dwarf," Forngíliath answered, his gray eyes shimmering with cheer.  "Perhaps we ought to leave you beneath Fangorn's dreary boughs, that you might recover from our influence upon you."

            "Nay, good Forngíliath, for then I should indeed go mad, and spend my days nattering at the trees and birds that happened upon me," Gimli said soberly.  "And those who passed me would surely say: 'Lo! but what ill fate has fallen upon that Elf, that he dresses himself after the manner of the Dwarves?'"

            Their discourse continued in like manner, low and peppered with smothered chuckles, as the company marched beneath the waning daylight.  Gimli focused on keeping his feet moving, one in front of the other, in a steady rhythm that kept him in stride with the warriors around him.  His exhaustion was mounting with each moment that he spent on his feet, but he mustered a dutifully droll reply for every glib remark Forngíliath made.  He was more appreciative than ever of his hours spent in Legolas' company; that time had prepared him well for his friend's kin and their swift tongues.

            Just as Anor's flaming orb touched the western horizon, a deep voice cracked the air over the warriors' heads.  As had happened when last the company had halted, Gimli stopped himself just short of colliding with the Elf ahead of him.  He gave a soft, annoyed grunt and stepped back slightly to bring himself into line with Melereg and Forngíliath.  "Surely we are not stopping for the night so soon," he murmured, almost to himself.

            "Nay," Melereg replied, equally softly.  He peered over the heads of his compatriots, narrowing his eyes at something ahead and to the right of the host.  "Someone joins the _aranhîr at the head of the company."_

            "One dressed in white," Forngíliath added under his breath.

            "In white?"  Gimli thought quickly.  "Only two come to my mind who dress in such raiment—Saruman, the traitor we go to confront on Legolas' behalf, and Gandalf, who has recently returned from what seemed his death in Moria."

            Melereg smiled.  "Then I believe 'tis the latter, Gimli, for the king greets him as a friend and ally."

            The Dwarf gave a broad grin, his weariness forgotten for the moment.  "Glad tidings are these, my friends!  For if Gandalf joins us, we cannot surely fail in our pursuit!"

            "He comes alongside the company, Master Dwarf, to bid us greeting," Forngíliath remarked.  "It is a pity you cannot see him and return his salutations; shall Melereg and I lift you onto our shoulders?"

            Before Gimli could make reply, a familiar voice boomed out over the host of Thranduil.  "Hail, _maetheri o Thranduil!  How fare you this evening?"_

            Gimli laughed delightedly as the warriors around him sounded their replies.  "It is Gandalf, or I am no Dwarf!" he exclaimed.

            "Do my ears deceive me, or is that Dwarven laughter I hear in the ranks of the Elves of Greenwood?" the wizard's warm voice declared.  "Gimli son of Glóin, come forth, that I might see you!  Or stand on the shoulders of your compatriots, if you would prefer!"

            Gimli elbowed Forngíliath, who unsurprisingly had burst into laughter at Gandalf's suggestion, and made his way through the tall warriors.  The Elves gave way before him, and ere long Gimli was standing before the dazzling presence that was Gandalf the White.  The Dwarf bowed low, grinning widely behind his beard.  "Gandalf, it is truly a pleasure to meet you again!" he said heartily.

            The wizard laughed kindly and clasped one of Gimli's shoulders.  "Ah, Gimli, the pleasure is greater on my part, I assure you," he answered, "for wise though I am considered among many, I could not have guessed that I would see the son of Glóin marching in the midst of a host of Wood-elves!  Pray tell, how did you come to join Thranduil's ranks?"

            "It is a long tale," Gimli said, and noting Thranduil himself approaching from the left, he bowed once more to the Elvenking.  "Good evening, my lord," he said courteously.  Gandalf's amused expression did not escape his notice, though he did not quite comprehend the reasons for the wizard's mirth.

            Thranduil inclined his head in reply, but the chill in his regard was lessened—likely by Gandalf's presence, for Legolas had told Gimli of his father's great esteem for the wizard.  "Mithrandir," he said, using the Elven name for the white-robed wizard, "if it seems good to you, we will stop here for the night so that we may speak, though my heart urges haste for my son's sake."

            Gandalf's eyes, though tucked behind bushy white brows, held a wealth of compassion.  "Well do I know it, son of Oropher," he murmured.  "And I would not delay you in this undertaking were it not of utmost importance that I do so." 

            Thranduil gave a nod and turned to gesture to the warriors at the vanguard.  The company began to break ranks, and as before, the tents were not assembled, but were laid aside to give the horses some respite.  Gimli remained where he was, opposite Thranduil and Gandalf.  He had nearly decided to take his leave and join Forngíliath and the others, when the wizard leveled his gaze upon the Dwarf once more.  

            "I would that you joined Thranduil and myself this eve, Gimli," Gandalf said.  He briefly glanced at said king, and upon seeing the Elven lord's stiff expression, he explained, "For what I will say concerns you both, as blood-bound father and oath-bound friend to Legolas."

            "You have word of him?" Thranduil asked quietly, his eyes molten silver in the growing twilight.

            The wizard turned to regard the Elvenking, and when a charged moment had passed, he said gravely, "I will not give you false words of hope, Thranduil.  I know not whether Legolas lives, nor do I claim to have seen him.  But I must speak with you nevertheless, and the matter does largely concern your son."

            Thranduil's expression did not waver, but Gimli thought he detected a slight shifting downward of the Elven lord's shoulders, as though a heavy weight had been dropped back down upon him with Gandalf's words.  "I see," he said at length.  "Very well.  Master Gimli, join Mithrandir and I in my tent when the Sun has fully set."

            Gimli bowed to the both of them.  "Of course, my lord."

            Gandalf gave a low chuckle.  "So very mannerly, son of Glóin.  I do hope you have maintained your wit and sharpness of tongue among Legolas' peers, though, however courteous you have been to their king."

            The Dwarf smiled as he heard Forngíliath's chuckling from somewhere nearby.  "Aye, Gandalf, that I have.  His majesty's host has been quite considerate, save for those few who insist on testing my wit with every breath they take."

            The wizard laughed and placed his hand on Gimli's shoulder once more.  "I meant to tell you—before I left the Lady's Wood, that is—to beware the barbed tongues of young Elves; but perhaps I ought to have warned them against the iron spirit of a Dwarf!"  Gandalf nodded to a few passing warriors.  "Go, Gimli," he said with a smile.  "Join your friends for a meal.  I shall see you in a short while."

            Gimli gave a short nod and a brief bow to Thranduil, then turned and strode over to Forngíliath, who waited close by, a sly smirk on his fair face.  Gandalf watched with a lingering smile as the Elf made what could only be a puckish remark, given Gimli's growled reply.  Indeed, the wizard was well pleased to see the Dwarf in such a fine humor among Thranduil's folk.  

            "Mithrandir," came the Elvenking's thrumming voice from the right, "will you not join me for a drink ere the Sun sinks low?"

            Gandalf shifted his gaze to Thranduil, and though the Elven lord's expression remained as calm as ever it was, subdued pain bled from his silveron eyes.  The wizard sighed to himself, but gave a gentle smile and said, "Certainly I will.  And perhaps while we drink, you might tell me why I have found you so far from your woodland, and with a Dwarf in your company no less…"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

End of Chapter Twenty.  Yes, that's the real ending.  We shan't find out what Gandalf is to tell Thranduil and Gimli until a bit later, I'm afraid… but, on the plus side, this chapter is finally out, and the next one is on a roll!  ^_^  *yawn*  Now, Kate must crawl into bed (it's currently 2:37 AM), for she has finished the chapter and is well pleased…

**Name notes:**

1) _Sîrethir_ (Elf of Mirkwood, Dín Duilin's younger brother) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "river outflow."

2)_ Eithelion_ (Elf of Mirkwood, friend of Dín Duilin) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "spring of water."

3) _Orithil_ (Elf of Mirkwood, friend of Dín Duilin) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "Moonday."  This would be sort of like naming your kid "Wednesday" or something.  *shrug*  Elves are weird like that.

4) _Cúthalion_ (Elf of Mirkwood) = this name is a Sindarin derivative that means "strong bow."  He was likely named for Beleg of Doriath.

**Some random other notes:**

In case anyone's interested, I went back and fixed the Elven aging foible in Chapter Eight—y'know, the part where Gandalf's telling the tale of young Legolas 'n Lelemir, and he says that they didn't grow up until they were about seven or eight hundred years old.  Come to find out, many months later, Master Tolkien actually had a set of edicts laid down concerning the aging of Elves—go figure!  So, after acquiring the book in which those rules were written (Morgoth's Ring), I skipped back and fixed the problem.  That also affected the timeline for _Tales of the Jade King_, by the bye.

Speaking of _Tales of the Jade King_, you should all go read that piece, um, now.  Chapter Two is up and rolling, with number Three in the works.  It's a collaborative effort between myself—evil tormentor of favorite characters that I am—and the ever-wondrous TreeHugger—the fabulous Empress of All Funny—so between the two of us, you _know_ there's lots of gorgeous Elf action and cute Elfling mischief!  It's worth a read!  ^_^

Also, some authors who are on my plug list in my bio, but who get little to no attention… Drew Marigold and LadyJea.  Drew, a very good friend of mine, is writing a wonderful A/U fic called "Of Meanderings and Messages," which involves the tangling of a fabulous OFC's sorry life with the Fellowship's journey.  Oh, and the OFC?  A half-Elf, half-Dwarf.  Hence the sorry life.  ^_~  Seriously, though, 'tis a great read!  Also, LadyJea, who is a close and personal friend, has written a few lovely little hobbit-centric vignettes, but she has gotten only the barest hint of attention.  Check her out; she's got some other stuff in the oven right now, and reviews will likely prompt her to hurry up and get those truffles posted!  ^_^

All of my other recommendations are in my bio, along with some added screaming about their magnificence… *yawn*  Kate is too tired to do much screaming right now (it's 3:02 AM, yikes)…

Again, a _huge thank you_ goes out to all the reviewers, all the new readers and veteran readers, and all the silent lurkers as well—you are all the greatest!  Drop a note for this chapter, if you would; the reviews are fuel for my poor, tired little brain…

…oh, and keep a look out for Chapter Twenty-One!  We'll _finally_ be returning to the scene at Eastfold with the Renewed Fellowship, the morning after Chapter Twelve's attack by the Nazgûl and the Silver Wraith—_plus, as an added goodie, expect a cameo from Lasselanta himself and a certain captive hobbit…  ^_^_

*Kate bids a fond farewell to her favorite Dwarf for now…"It has been a pleasure, good sir…and so, until next time…_adieu."*_


	21. Morning's Light

**Title:** The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary:** Aw, forget it.  If you haven't been reading this from the beginning, go back and start at Chapter One.  Otherwise, things won't make sense _at all.  This is the last summary I'm even going to bother including.  ^_^_

**Notes:** This is now completely A/U, and contains elements drawn from bookverse, movieverse, and Kateverse (see **Further other notes** section after the reviewer replies in Chapter Twenty for more information on the subject).

**Disclaimer:** Though this story has digressed to an absurd degree from the original Trilogy, it is still operating under the rules and within the environs set down by Master Tolkien, the genius who masterminded the whole enchilada.  Bottom line: it ain't mine.  All props to the Great Man.

**Further notes:** My Elvish resources are: the LOTR trilogy, "The Silmarillion," "The Complete Guide to Middle-earth" by Robert Foster, "The Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth" by Ruth S. Noel, the _Fellowship of the Ring _movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, the _Two Towers_ movie soundtrack's lyric booklet, and the Ardalambion website.  

**Replies to reviews:** Thank you to all of the readers, whether you review or lurk!  ^_^  You make my day every time!__

Niphrandl: ^_^  Hey there, first reviewer!  I'm pleased you liked Twenty; and HECK yeah, Gimli can hold his own against _anyone, as far as I'm concerned!  (Even our lovely P.O.'d Thranduil at his finest!)  Ah, but Gandalf's information will have to wait several chapters, I'm afraid…everything will come together in due time, I promise!_

TreeHugger: MELAGLAR!!  I loved your looong review; it made me shriek for joy!  Gimli and his Elven companions pretty much wrote themselves all the way through, and I admit, I myself was surprised at how well the chapter turned out.  Forngíliath and Melereg have established themselves pretty well, I think—good thing, because we haven't seen the last of them by a long shot!  ^_^  *grin*  Yes, I'm sorry, but Gandalf's news will have to wait.  I'm operating by a strict timeline here, and I have to catch up with everyone before I can bring Gimli, Thranduil, Gandalf and Co. back onto the scene.  Lots of goings-on before then, I'm afraid!  Don't worry, though, things won't get truly dark for a few more chapters to come… *wicked snicker*  (P.S. I'm right there with you on the lack of patience thing; it's one of those virtues I haven't quite developed yet!  ^_~)

Hiro-tyre: *Kate hides from the army of the Dead*  Eep!  Hey, I was really glad to see your review; they crack me the heck up every time!  ^_^  Yes, we're about to go back to the Renewed Fellowship, or what remains of it…  Gimli and Thranduil are great, I agree!  I have made something of a personal mission out of using TWW to form as many unheard-of relationships as possible between established characters, just for the sake of exploring the characters' nuances and such.  As for Forngíliath, well, he appreciates the offer (Lord knows, he won't like me very much in the future), but he's signed a contract and is obliged to remain my muse until such time as this mega-monster is completed.  After that, though, as he has informed me, all bets are off… ^_^

HaloGatomon: Actually, Halo, I've become something of an anime freak since my last posting, and I now know the "lingo," so to speak.  ^_^  For instance, I can now say such things as, "Yatta!  My totally kawaii Dwarf is whuppin' all over the place, de gozaru yo!"  Or maybe not, since that is _so_ fangirlish.  O_O  *grin*  Anyway, Saruman will get his, don't worry.  And I have some special things in mind for the unveiling of Lasselanta's origins… ^_^

AmaterasuKami: *Kate begs for trail mix with lots of M&Ms*  ^_^  I'm so glad you're loving the banter here; it seems to be pretty popular!  As I've said, though, I can't claim all the credit; the characters write themselves much better than I ever could write them, you know?  Hope you like the Renewed Fellowship's continuing journeys…they're far from over!

daw the minstrel: *Kate chuckles at the Irish comment*  I dunno, maybe the Irish are all descended from Elves!  Wouldn't that be spiffy?  Of course, that would spawn all kinds of red-headed Sue-Elves in the fanficdom (more than there are already, I mean).  O_O  And I almost cried when Thranduil showed up, all subdued grief and fatherly angst.  *_*

Lady Raine: *grin* Alas the woes of being a slave to _writing the written word, I say!  Here, here!  ^_^  Yep, this story will be a mega-monster before it's over, I'm afraid…but, on the plus side, that gives me a long time to play with the characters and enjoy their company!  ^_^  I'm glad you're still liking the work; hope the RF's return lives up to expectations!_

Crystal Cat: You raised several big, important, and good questions in your review!  I don't know how many I'll be able to answer, but we'll see… First off, yep, returning to Sam and Co. is next on the list, and nope, we won't find out what Gandalf has "in his pointy hat" (*Kate laughs uproariously at the reference*) for a good long while.  Second, action is definitely on the horizon, for everyone!  ^_^  Third, that would be a good wager, but my lips are sealed about Frodo's fate.  Fourth, Legolas' eventual fate is also locked in my little pointy (hee) head, but be assured, there is much, much more to come with him!  I would pay a lot to see Thranduil and Saruman in a fight.  I think Thranduil would chew the old bag's head off with his bare teeth!  ^o^  Fifth and lastly, what Ents?  ^_~  Ah, my dear, that was a brilliant question, and I think you'll like the answer when it comes… but for now, my lips are again sealed!  ^_^  Thanks for the review, I hope you like this chapter as well!

M. N. Theis: *Kate sniffles*  Oh, the praise in your review was almost too much to bear!  *bows*  Thank you, thank you for your compliments; they made me grin like a doofus for half a day!  ^_^  Gimli has truly written himself in this fic.  I wasn't even a big Gimli fan before I started writing his interactions at Lórien, but he himself has made a Dwarf-fangirl out of me!  The way he affects everyone around him, even if they dislike or distrust him!  His marvelous wit!  His sweet heart!  *sighs happily*  I can't say that I actively lust after Gimli (as I do after, say, a certain Elvenking ^_^), but I do love that Dwarf!  And yes, Legolas' absence is entirely intentional.  A lot of people ask where he is, when he'll make an appearance, etc., but the truth is, I enjoy leaving him mostly out of the picture, because it frees me up to explore everyone else and spotlight characters that are usually bowled over by that lovely Elf's magical presence.  (Although maybe that's just in the fanfics; it seems to me that Tolkien didn't do a whole lot with Legolas in the Trilogy, but instead focused on the men and hobbits, eh?)  Anyway, thank you bunches for the review, and I hope this chapter meets with such approval!  ^_^

Enigma Jade: *Kate staggers under the heaps of flattery* Ah, but such flattery will get you _everywhere_ with me!  ^_^  I'm so glad to hear that I've kept you guessing; that's the point, and I'm pleased as punch it's going so well!  Thank you for the review!  Hope you like Twenty-One!

Raen: *nod* I, too, liked Twenty, if not for the humor, but for the sheer amount of character banter and interactions.  Lack of action makes for good character development in some instances, and I love playing around with Gimli and the various Elves.  They're hilarious!  ^_^  Beware of dark and heavy chapters ahead… but humor tends to present itself in the oddest places, even in real life, eh?  Sometimes we have to laugh, just for the sake of forgetting our troubles, even for a moment.  Glad you're still enjoying!

Laura M: Yes, yes, drat me.  Drat me even more for taking eight months to churn out another chapter!  Actually, to tell the truth, Twenty-One was written in three days.  Three.  The eight months beforehand were dead months for TWW.  O_O  But don't tell anyone; I'll get mobbed.  Thanks for the Gimli praise; I too love that Dwarf!  And WOW to the caffeine pill information… maybe I'll try that to get the next chapter out faster!  ^_^  Oh, heavens, don't print it out!  You'll just find all of my mistakes in past chapters, and I will fall off of my pedestal!  ^_~  Just kidding, heh.

eressëhína: O_O  Thanks for your name translation…but so depressing!  "Lonely child"?  *hugs eressëhína*  Good gracious, I felt bad reading it!  On a lighter note, yes, I follow the books MUCH more closely than the movies, although the movie images of characters are the ones I think of when I write out descriptions (unless, of course, the book's description is completely different and suits the story better ^_^).  Update soon?  *cough*  Um, hope eight months later is soon enough… @_@

Bookworm2000: *Kate grosses out at fish imagery*  Glad you're liking the story, but EW!  I hate fish anyway, in any form!  -_-

Dragon-of-the-north: Welcome to the TWW cult!  Sign your name in Elven blood right at the door… ^_~  Seriously, though, I'm glad you like my work!  TWW is my baby, so to speak, and everything else (except maybe _The Jade King_) is secondary.  Thanks for the dialogue/speech praise!  I tend to slip into Master Tolkien's tonality a lot in my writing anyway, but for TWW I've tried to keep it especially consistent.  Thanks, hope you continue liking the fic!  ^_^

Criket: *grin*  Thanks for the praise and trumpets, friend!  I don't know about my being the _best_ author here… not even close, I don't think.  Check out the people on my faves lists!  I secretly build shrines to them in my spare time!  ^_^  No criticism?  Ah, but look closer; there are many mistakes that I find when I go back and re-read my work, and they bug the heck out of me!  Thank you, thank you, stick around!

JezRoll: *Kate picks Jez up off the floor and dusts her off*  Goodness, m'dear!  Thanks for stopping in!  I'm glad you're reading and enjoying; after all, the people out there on the Net really don't know who the heck the loon known as Kate is, but if one of my friends knows me and _still likes my work, woohoo!  ^_^  Thanks, babe!_

Cyblade Silver: *beams at compliment*  The most original story you've read, eh?  Thank a bunch!  I've tried to really change things up, because, well, everything's been _done_ before, y'know?  Yeah, the Wraiths are awesome… hey, go read Thundera Tiger's work!  She has a story about the Nazgûl King, as far as I can remember (or is that someone else…?  @_@).  Thanks for enjoying, hope you like Twenty-One!  ^_^

LAXgirl: Calm, calm!  ^_~  Legolas hasn't been around much so far, true, but that's because his part to play hasn't arrived yet.  I assure you, he's far from done!  He'll be making appearances in the very near future, that's all I can say…  I may have to growl at your pleasure; you're GLAD Boromir's dead?  Why, oh why does everyone hate him so much?  He's a good man, descended of a noble line, and it was just the stupid Ring that got him in the end!  Even Frodo fell victim to the Ring's madness, and no one goes, "Oh, I wish they'd just KILL that conniving little hobbit!"  *pant pant*  Okay, rant done.  ^_^  Seriously, though, I was sad to kill off Boromir, and I hope I gave him what passes for an acceptable send-off when the group's on the run…  And as for Legolas, my lips are thoroughly sealed.  All answers will arrive in due time!  But thank you so much for your review; it brightened my day!  Keep reading!  ^_^

Silent Storm: Welcome, welcome, and thank you for the long, cheering review!  Glad you like the title.  ^_^  As to the guessing… heh, as I've said so many times, I'm not saying a word about anyone's fates.  Legolas' fate as a wraith, Frodo's fate as a captive, the Ring's fate, etc. are all locked in the vault of my pointed little head.  Everything will come out in its own time.  And as for angst, HECK yeah, I specialize in it!  ^_^  Angst, torment, unhappiness ahoy!  I'm also glad you loved Gimli.  LOLOL to the image of Gimli leading the Dwarf army!  Hah!  That'd be great!  Maybe I'll write it as a side-note and post it as an outtake for TWW (there are already some sitting in my files…).  ^_^  Thanks!

KrystalB 2003: And here, two months later, is the update, at last.  ^_^  Nope, keeping my mouth shut!  Not saying anything about anyone, or what will happen in the future!  All I'll say is that things will get much darker before they get brighter.  Not very encouraging, is it?  ^_^  Enjoy Twenty-One!

Im: Thanks, and welcome to the non-lurking section!  ^_^  Just kidding, I'm a horrible lurker, I admit it.  I'm glad you reviewed, just so I know you're out there!  Thanks for the compliments; I've made a point of staying in Master Tolkien's playground, despite my screwing around with the timeline, and I'm tickled that you think I've done so well!  Thank you, thank you!

**Additional replies:**

Thanks to **TreeHugger, TaylorElf, **and **JastaElf** for your replies to my Author's Note… I told you people not to do that!  ^_~  I was practically making goat sounds over here!  @_@  But thank you for your encouragements…voila, Kate gets a little encouragement, and she spits out another chapter!  Weird, huh?  Coincidence, I assure you all.  Thank you! 

Now, _finally_, on with the tale!  As promised, we've returned to the morning after the disastrous Nazgûl attack of Chapters Eleven and Twelve (refer to those chapters if you need to)…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            The morning was but a misty gray murk when Samwise Gamgee opened his weary eyes once more.  His first thought was that he should like to wrap his cloak more tightly around his chilled body and fall back into sleep's forgetfulness, but he saw that Aragorn and the Elves were already awake and moving about, and his sense of duty overcame his weariness.  With a yawn, he got to his feet and stretched aching limbs, and shook his head to clear it.  Bits of grass flew from his thick mop of hair.  "What would your old Gaffer say if he saw you now, Samwise?" he muttered to himself, brushing absently at his travel-worn clothing.  "'Land's sakes, boy, go get your bath 'afore your mother sees you like that!'  But I do look like a ruffian, I suppose."

            "No more so than any other you see here, Master Samwise," Lelemir remarked with a smile, coming over to wake Sam's fellow hobbits from their huddled slumber.  She knelt down and touched Merry and Pippin, saying, "Come, Master Periannath, the day is begun, and we must make some haste!"

            "Days begin far too early among the Elves," Pippin groaned, but he did sit up, as did his cousin beside him.  The two yawned and rubbed at their eyes, but were soon fully awake and standing on their feet, ready to set forth.  Truth be told, Sam was rather proud of them; they were all bone-tired, but the two younger hobbits hadn't complained overmuch despite their weariness and hunger.

            Sam watched bleakly as Aragorn and Alcarin arranged Boromir atop the low stack of wood that was to serve as the man's pyre.  The wood, mostly dead branches and slender uprooted trees from the vale of the Entwash, had been woven together to form a sort of platform, upon which Boromir's body had been carefully placed.  His hands were folded at his breast, with his sword's hilt clasped between his fingers and his round shield placed above his head.  Sam thought he looked to be asleep, at least from afar; his face was noble and peaceful, eyes closed, with his hair combed and smoothed away from his brow.  The arrow that slew him had mercifully been removed from his heart, though where it had gone to, Sam didn't know.  He supposed that either Aragorn or one of the Elves had pulled it out, and the very notion made his stomach turn upside-down.

            "I suppose they are going to burn him before we set out," Merry said soberly, watching alongside Sam.  "A horrid custom, don't you think so, Master Gamgee?"

            Sam shrugged.  "I don't think it's our business what the Big Folk do with their own folk," he replied.  "Although I wouldn't ever do such a thing.  I've heard the story of Tizzy Bracegirdle far too often."  The three hobbits nodded in agreement at that.  The tale of Tizzleman Bracegirdle was well-known to hobbits in all four Farthings.

            "Lady Lelemir, what do Elves do with their own, once they've died?" Pippin asked, looking up at her with cheerless eyes.

            The princess' expression was grave, and her gray gaze reflected deep sadness.  "My people seldom face such a prospect, Pippin.  Death is foreign to the Elves, and visits only under the most violent and grievous circumstances."  She sighed then, and continued, "Nevertheless, we of my home forest are more frequently acquainted with death than our kin in Imladris or Lothlórien, I think.  An Elf who falls beneath Mirkwood's trees is given into his family's care, and they usually bury their kinsman beneath a beloved tree or some other symbol of his life.  My own mother was buried in the royal tombs, beside my grandfather."

            Pippin's eyes widened with horror.  "Oh!  I am sorry to have asked, Lady Lelemir, if it brought such a terrible thing to mind!"

            "Nay, Pippin, there is no need for apology," Lelemir told him gently.  "We lost her long ago, and my heart is at peace to think that she is happy in the Blessed Realm, awaiting her family's arrival there."

            "I guess we never really asked Legolas about his family," Merry said forlornly.  "He always seemed so strong and unattached, somehow.  I don't suppose I ever thought of him as a child with parents and brothers and sisters."

            "I wonder about Boromir's family, too," Sam said, very quietly, almost speaking to himself again.  "But I guess we shan't be able to ask him now, either."

            "Maybe we ought to ask Aragorn," Pippin suggested.  "If Legolas has a family, then Aragorn ought to as well."

            Lelemir laughed softly.  "What curiosity your folk possess!  Truly, I rarely see such inquisitiveness among my own kin, excepting the very young, and it is refreshing."  Her smile faded then, and she glanced over at the somber proceedings about the makeshift pyre.  "But I think that now is not the time for such questions.  We will send Boromir's spirit to join his ancestors, and then we must make haste for Edoras.  I have no wish to spend another night on this plain."

            Sam shivered.  His ears were still ringing with Frodo's last, desperate cry, and his master's absence was as a gaping wound in his heart.  The Ring hung heavily at his neck, a persistent reminder of the terrible quest he had inherited.  "I'll feel safer inside high walls, that's for sure," he mumbled, though the words sounded hollow to him.  He was certain he wouldn't feel safe anywhere for a long time to come.

            The four of them approached the clear space where Boromir lay at rest.  Aragorn had taken up the flaming torch he had  prepared before, and Alcarin's fair face was set in grim lines.  The Ranger nodded to the hobbits, lending a specially kind glance to Samwise, and said, "We have but little time before we must begin our journey to Edoras.  I would that we reached the city ere night falls; though I wish more time could be spared for a suitable memorial in honor of brave Boromir."  Having spoken so, he moved to place the head of the burning bough he held to the pyre, intending to set it afire.

            "Wait," Pippin interjected earnestly, stilling Aragorn's hand with the insistence in his voice.  The Ranger turned a questioning gaze upon the young hobbit.  Pippin looked at both his elder cousin and Sam in turn, then asked, in a smallish voice, "Might we place something on the pyre with Boromir, before you light it?"

            Aragorn gave a short nod.  "Of course, Master Hobbit.  Do what seems good to you."

            "We must put some bread or other fare in his hand," Pippin said to his fellow hobbits, dropping to his knees to rummage in his pack.

            Merry nodded his agreement.  "Good thinking, cousin," he said.

"An apple or a seedcake would be better, but we haven't any at hand, have we?" Pippin continued, digging deeply into his bag.

            "Even if we had, like as not one of you would have eaten it by now," Sam pointed out.  "But it is a good idea, Pippin."

            "If a curious Elf might inquire, why do you wish to place food upon the pyre at all, Master Hobbits?" Lelemir asked.  "Is it a custom common to your people?"

            Sam gave a vigorous nod.  "Oh, yes," he answered seriously.  "Every hobbit is buried with a bit of food in his hand, ever since the mess over what happened to Tizzy Bracegirdle and all."

            Aragorn raised one brow.  "What did happen to Tizzy Bracegirdle, Master Gamgee?  I fear I have not heard this tale before, and it seems to hold much sway with your folk."

            Sam frowned in thought, recalling the story kept alive by his Gaffer and the Shire's other old timers, who would relate it with due solemnity, shaking their heads and smoking their pipes.  "Well, there was a Bracegirdle lad living in the Northfarthing, just south of Hardbottle, I believe—or was it north?"

            "East, so I heard," Merry put in.  "East of Hardbottle."

            "I suppose it doesn't matter, really," Sam said, "but his name was Tizzleman, called Tizzy by those who knew him well.  Anyway, one day, Master Tizzleman came down with an awful fever, the worst ever seen in the Northfarthing, some reckoned.  He got so sick and quiet that everyone assumed he was dead.  So they buried him, good and proper, and his relatives started auctioning off his possessions in traditional hobbit fashion.  Meanwhile, though, the cold air underground broke Tizzleman's fever, and he woke up in his casket.  'Course it was all dark, so he couldn't rightly see where he was, but all the same he started thrashing around, squealing so's to wake the real dead.  By the time anyone heard the ruckus, poor Tizzleman'd nearly starved.  That's why we always put food in with the folks who pass away, so as the saying goes, they don't end up 'in a Tizzy.'"

            "A wise custom, then," Alcarin remarked thoughtfully.

"What a terrible thing, to wake within a grave," Lelemir said, her face slightly pale.  

"I've some _lembas here," Pippin piped up.  "Do you think that would be all right?"_

"We've been eating it for some weeks now," said Merry.  "I don't think Boromir would complain; he seemed to like it well enough.  Go ahead and put it in his hand, cousin, so Strider can light the fire."

At the mention of fire, Pippin sniffled a little, but he managed to hold back tears as he gingerly tucked some of the Elven waybread beneath Boromir's stiff fingers, next the hilt of his sword.  Then, he swiftly retreated to Merry's side once more, biting his lip miserably.

"Is the arrangement satisfactory now, Sam?" Aragorn asked quietly.

Sam nodded.  "Yes, sir, it is, and thank you," he answered.

The Ranger gave a slow nod in return, and at length he sighed.  "Oh, how I wish that we could return Boromir to his father's city!" he said regretfully.  "They will look for him from the White Tower, but he will not return, and I fear that tidings of his death will not reach that land for many weeks, if not longer.  But alas, evil bears down more swiftly upon those who seek its downfall, and I think the days will grow darker until the Enemy is no more.  Fare well, noble son of Gondor!  May your rest remain untroubled by the darkness of this world!"  After that, Aragorn was silent, and the torch was touched to Boromir's pyre.  The flames leaped up eagerly, despite the wood's dampness, and soon Boromir's form was concealed within the bright glow and thick smoke.

After some time, a low melody threaded through the haze.  Sam looked up, his eyes wet, and was surprised to realize that Alcarin was humming, his gentle voice weaving a simple, sorrowful tune that brought a swell of grief to the hobbit's heart.  Yet, though the song was full of sadness, it seemed to bring strength and healing as well; for such was the nature of Elvish songs.  

Alcarin sang until the flames of Boromir's pyre began to diminish, and then he fell silent once more.  Those gathered stood in quiet thought, and the Sun's flaming disc finally peeped from its resting place in the east and warmed their chilled bones; but the cold in Sam's heart lingered on.

At length, Aragorn stirred.  "It is time to set forth for Edoras.  Our companion has gone from our sight, and his troubles are ended; our burden, however, must be borne in earnest.  Let us leave this place."

Merry wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve.  "Fare well, Boromir," he muttered under his breath.  Pippin echoed the words, still weeping quietly.  Of all the companions, the two youngest hobbits had taken the most liking to the noble man of Gondor, and he had seemed fond of them in return.

Sam didn't say anything, but he closed his eyes for a moment out of respect and heartache.  He hadn't been nearly so close to Boromir—Frodo had been especially wary of the man, Sam knew, though he didn't have the faintest idea why—but he mourned all the same.  Death seemed to be striking nearer and nearer to his heart with each victim it claimed.  Frodo's cry jabbed into his head again, and Sam shook himself furiously.  He _refused to believe that his master was dead.  Frodo couldn't be dead.  A captive, yes, and in terrible danger, but not dead._

Aragorn drew the remaining members of the Renewed Fellowship together apart from Boromir's quietly crackling funeral blaze.  "I have no doubt that the smoke will attract the attentions of the Rohirrim.  I believe that we will quicker reach Edoras with their help; certainly we will live longer if they know in advance that we intend no treachery."

"You make these folk sound a mite unfriendly, Strider," Sam remarked.  "Are you sure they'll take us in, if they dislike strangers so much?"

"The sons of Eorl are a proud, fierce people," Aragorn said.  "They are valiant in battle, and excellent horsemen—in truth, they prize their horses above all else.  Though they do not take kindly to strangers, Sam, especially in these dark days of late, they are not unkind, and have long been the steadfast ally of Gondor.  Be assured, they shall present no threat so long as our purpose is made known to them."

"Shall we tell them of the Ring, then?" Pippin asked.

"No," Sam answered immediately.  _Beware Men, for they easily fall prey! Frodo had said just before fleeing into the darkness, into the strange Silver Rider's clutches.  Sam didn't entirely understand his master's words, but he would obey them.  His fellow hobbits gave him inquiring looks, but he refused to say any more._

"Master Gamgee is right," Aragorn agreed, seeming unsurprised by Sam's outburst.  "I think it best if we conceal the full particulars of the Quest, but the Rohirrim must be made to know that we oppose the Shadow as vehemently as they themselves do.  Fear not, Sam," he said then, with a reassuring nod, "no one will know of your burden, unless it becomes utterly necessary to reveal it."  Sam said nothing, but was somewhat calmed by the Ranger's words.

Not much was left to say afterward, and before the Sun had fully ascended above the grass-strewn hills, the six companions had resumed their journey northeastward across the grassy plain, toward Edoras.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            "Lord Alcarin," Sam said, after they had been walking for some time, "if you don't mind my asking, what were you humming this morning?  When Boromir's pyre was lit, I mean."

            The tall Elven lord granted his hobbit companion a smile.  "Master Perian, did I not ask you to use my name, and to forego my title?"  At the hobbit's apologetic mumble, he chuckled warmly.  "Ah, Sam, I spoke merely in jest.  As to your question, it was a song created long ago, in honor of one of Boromir's own ancestors.  I thought it only appropriate to voice part of its melody as tribute to Denethor's son."

            "I had not heard it before today, Alcarin," Aragorn commented from just ahead, glancing back over his shoulder at the Elf and the hobbit, who walked side by side, with the larger of the two shortening his long stride in order to accommodate his companion's small legs.

            "I am not surprised," Alcarin answered, the breeze blowing his dark locks back from his face.  "In truth, Aragorn, it was Master Elrond who first crafted the tune.  Samwise," and he looked back down at the Halfling, "you know that Boromir was the son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor?  Denethor is, in fact, the last in a long lineage of Stewards, a line that stretches back several generations of Men.  One of his ancestors was a man called Mardil Voronwë, the Steadfast.  He ruled Gondor well and wisely after the disappearance of the last King, and served the land of his forefathers exceedingly well.  When Mardil died, Lord Elrond was moved to craft a song in his honor.  That is the song that I sang for Boromir this morn."

            "A most fitting choice, indeed," Aragorn said.  "I thank you for doing my brother such an honor, Alcarin."

            "I think I should like to learn a song or two, someday," Sam said thoughtfully.  "Mister Frodo was always the more interested in that sort of thing, but all this talk of ancestors and Elves and such makes me keen to know more of it."

            "I would be pleased to teach you, if you wish, Master Perian," Alcarin offered.  

Sam's smile was genuine, if somewhat self-conscious.  "I would someday, sir, thank you," he mumbled, again forgetting the Elf-lord's opinion of honorifics.

Alcarin said nothing more, but his quiet laughter rumbled in the warm air above Sam's head, and the hobbit couldn't help but feel that the weight at his neck had diminished for the tall warrior's friendship.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            The Sun traced a slow, bright path upwards through the sky, as though reluctant to reach its zenith and begin its descent into the west.  Aragorn led the Renewed Fellowship with surety, his steps long and tireless, his eyes ever roving about in search of Rohirrim mounts.  Lelemir followed after him, with Merry at her right and Pippin at her left.  The two younger hobbits were founts of curiosity, eager to know more about the home and kin that Legolas had left behind.  The Elf princess readily answered their questions, and her smile shone warmly on them; for a time, they forgot the horrors of the night before.  Behind them, then, came Samwise and Alcarin, who did not speak overly much, but were content to walk in each other's company, listening to the faint exchanges wafting back from the group ahead.

            "I wouldn't have thought you were older than Legolas, Lady Lelemir," Merry said.  "You certainly don't look it!  Older, I mean.  Begging your pardon if it's rude to inquire of Elves, but how old are you and Legolas, anyway?"

            "My years exceed Legolas' by a scant few, Master Perian," Lelemir answered, and the tone of her voice held a smile.  "But nay, it is not considered impolite to inquire.  My brother and I have walked this earth for nigh on thirty generations of men."

            The two young hobbits furrowed their brows, thinking.  Merry was the first to look up in amazement.  "But, Lady Lelemir, that would mean that you and Legolas are three thousand years old!  How can that be?"

            "Remember that death does not naturally come to Elvenkind, Merry," Lelemir said, shifting her bow from her right hand to her left as she spoke.  "In truth, my brother and I are yet young in the sight of our people; but the years bear little import for my kin, for the ages pass swiftly before the eyes of those with no concern for death."

            "I don't think that I should like to live forever," Pippin remarked with a strangely wistful note in his voice.  "A bit longer, perhaps, so I might have the chance to see more of the world, but not forever.  Is it dreadfully dull to live forever, Lady Lelemir?"

            Lelemir threw back her golden head and laughed aloud, and Alcarin's chuckle reached their ears as well.  "At times, perhaps, Pippin," she answered.  "At times.  That is why many of my kin have left for the Far West, to escape their weariness of this land and its ills.  But that time is far away for myself and my brother, I think; we have not yet despaired of these shores."

            "Will you also leave someday, Lady Lelemir?" Pippin asked.

            "Mayhap someday, but do not fret so, Master Perian!" Lelemir said kindly.  "There is much good in this world, and I intend to remain for as long as I may."

            Tramping wearily at Alcarin's side, Sam shook his head.  "I don't rightly see how anyone could live for so long and look so young still," he mumbled to himself.  "Elves!  A strange folk, I always said, but good all the same, if a mite old."

            "Well, Master Perian, I think that all folk are strange to one another in the beginning," Alcarin remarked.  "As for age, you make me curious: how old do you suppose I am?"

            Sam looked up at the warrior, surprised.  "Why, I don't know, Lo—Alcarin, I mean.  I hadn't thought much on it.  You surely don't look half a day over thirty in Big Folk reckoning, but I suppose you must be much older than that."

            Alcarin's dark eyes were lit with mirth.  "Forgive our laughter, Samwise; it is not born of scorn, but rather of fondness.  Elves rarely inquire as to age—it is considered a trivial matter, excepting a young Elf's coming of age and other such events."  The Elf considered for a moment.  "Truthfully, I am hard-pressed to recall the exact number of my years, but I these things I may tell you: I saw the first sunrise and the first crossing of the moon, and I remember a time when the only heavenly lights were the brightest stars ever created.  I have seen many a kingdom rise and fall, and I have stood apart from many a war that should not have been fought."  Alcarin lightly touched Sam's shoulder and added in a softer voice, "But, Master Perian, I believe that years are of less import than the soul which bears them."

            "I suppose that's true enough," Sam agreed, hefting his pack on his shoulders.  "There's a great many gaffers and gammers back home; some are wise and good, and tell youngsters stories of the old days, and some are bitter and spend their days miserable in their holes.  I wonder what sort of gaffer I'll be, when the time comes.  I hope I'm back by then to tell stories, and not still lugging the wretched Thing about my neck!"

            The Elven lord nodded gravely.  "Indeed, my friend, indeed.  In my heart, I yearn to return to my home in Imladris, to my lord's service.  Yet I do not think that any such wish shall come to pass ere our quest is fulfilled."

            "You've the right of it, I think, Alcarin," Sam said, for once forgetting to be shy with his use of the Elf's given name.  Sadness clouded his face.  "And I don't suppose I'll see Mr. Frodo again, not soon, maybe not ever.  Oh, sir, what if he's hurt?  Or worse?  And all alone, without even his Sam by his side!"

            Alcarin paused for a moment and laid gentle fingers on Sam's shoulder, silently urging the hobbit to halt and meet his gaze.  When Sam looked up, mildly confused at their sudden stop, the Elf's face was at once grim and filled with compassion.  "I know that your master's loss has wounded you deeply, Samwise," he said softly.  "Your heart carries burdens far greater than any one child of Eru should be forced to bear, and not only the loss of Frodo; a terrible object has been thrust into your keeping, and the quest for its destruction has been laid upon your shoulders."  Alcarin then folded himself down to his knees so that he could look Sam in the eyes as he spoke.  "But now, my young friend, you must trust that the Valar will keep watch over Frodo, just as they guard Legolas Thranduilion.  Aragorn was right when he said that Frodo's fate lies in other hands.  It is given to you to continue his Quest, and you must lay the worst of your heart's anguish to rest, or it will drive you mad ere you reach even the near slopes of the Enemy's mountain."

            The hobbit's gaze was dark and full of tears.  "I don't know how to do that," he moaned softly.  "I feel like something's tearing me apart from the inside out, and I keep hearing Mr. Frodo calling out in my head.  And I can't help him, not at all!"  With that, he began to weep, burying his face in his hands.

            Alcarin remained where he was, with one hand resting on Sam's shoulder, his head slightly bowed forward with the weight of the Halfling's sorrow.  Aragorn and the others had stopped a ways ahead, but Lelemir kept the younger hobbits from immediately rushing to their fellow's aid.  Sam's tears did not last overlong, although deep hiccups rattled in his throat for some time after the sobbing ceased.  He murmured small, embarrassed thanks to Alcarin, and tried to hide his face behind his kerchief while he recovered, yet sniffing, yet sighing.

            Alcarin, for his part, remained silent and still as Samwise dried his eyes and mended himself with his handkerchief.  When the hobbit had collected his wits about him once more, the Elf gave a low sigh.  "Surely the Lady of the Stars has seen your tears, Samwise," he murmured.  "And there is no shame in weeping for dear souls lost to us.  But come, let us hurry and rejoin the others, for the Sun will soon reach her peak in the sky, and Edoras lies far ahead."

            Sam nodded, and though his spirit and tread remained heavy, his brief spell of tears had served to soften at least some small part of the vise clenched round his aching heart.  He couldn't quite meet Alcarin's kind gaze, but he offered a weak smile.  "I don't rightly know where that sprang from, Alcarin.  But I do feel a little better for it."

            "Sorrow must have a release, or it will poison the soul that carries it," the Elven warrior replied.  He rose to his full height and nodded, as though in approval.  "You have a strong heart, Samwise, one that persists even though it has surely broken with grief.  I regret that I cannot in some way help you to carry your burdens; but perhaps you might lean on my shoulder when your own strength wanes, so that you do not fall under the weight."

            Sam chuckled tiredly.  "To be honest, Alcarin, I think that I would more likely lean on your knee than on your shoulder.  Why, I couldn't reach your shoulder if both Meriadoc and Peregrin were stacked beneath me head to toe to head!"

            Alcarin smiled down at the weary hobbit.  "Mayhap not.  Well then, you are welcome to my knee, if it pleases you better.  But come! you should reassure the others, your fellow _periannath in especial; I can see that they are quite worried for you, and I believe Aragorn is keen to resume our journey."_

            "Likely as not; I know I am.  I certainly don't want to be caught out on this plain again tonight," Sam said.  He cleared his throat, and continued, "I don't know what one says to properly thank an Elf, Alcarin, but if you'll lend me some fitting words, I'll try my best to repeat them back, because I'll surely mean them."

            Alcarin gave a short laugh.  "There is no need, Samwise.  If I can lighten your load in any fashion, the peace you reap is thanks enough for me."

            The two companions then turned and made their way to join their companions, and when Merry and Pippin had satisfied themselves that Samwise was indeed hale, the Renewed Fellowship continued on as before, with Aragorn at the fore and the others following behind…

…and far from the companions, far from the quest, far from the Dark One's treasure and its new bearer, a young hobbit slumped nervelessly against the chill, motionless breast of his captor and wished in his heart for swift death to claim him, that he might not face whatever terrors awaited at the end of his own journey.  For he was one Frodo Baggins, taken captive in the midst of the night's battle; and he shivered and quaked in the dreadful embrace of a spectral figure swathed all in silver, who clutched his prey with wicked claws and rode with all haste for his master's abode, the darkened tower of Isengard…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End of Chapter Twenty-One.

Ugh…it's 2:09 AM, and I'm posting this because I'm so excited that it's finally _done!!!  *sleepy grin*  _

A brief name note: I finally figured out that Lelemir's name means "laughing jewel," a derivative of _lalaith,_ meaning "laughter," and _mir,_ meaning "jewel."  Yay me.

Also, the tale of Tizzleman Bracegirdle is mine, and I'm quite proud of it, if I may say so.  ^_^  

*yawn*

Hope you enjoyed this long-awaited installment!  Watch for Chapter Twenty-Two, hopefully coming soon!  Thanks for reading!


	22. Morning's Light, Elsewhere

**IT'S BACK!**

**(Sort of!)**

**Greetings, readership! I know, it's been _forever_ since the last update, and for that I do most heartily apologize. Real Life and Other Fandom Plotbunnies staged a successful coup d'état on my LOTR-fic brain space.**

**A Small Warning: The invading regime has not been overthrown yet. We may be in for another long wait…**

**Title: The Weeping Wraith, Chapter Twenty-One-and-a-Half**

**Disclaimer: Um, still not mine. Nyuh-uh. Nopers.**

**Replies to reviews: Thank you all so very, very much for your comments. Truly, the review board is a major source of inspiration for me—note that I'm trying to kick my muse back into gear by posting this and garnering a few "THAT'S ALL!" reviews. **

**A few of you posted questions about Sam carrying the Ring and about Legolas' eventual fate, but I beg you, be patient with me! Believe me, I've sat and pondered these things for years—YEARS, now, can you believe it's been so long?—and I think I've come up with some pretty good stuff. All will reveal itself in due time, when my muse graces me with its presence again!**

**And so, without further ado, here's the tiniest, most pathetic excuse for a pseudo-chapter in the history of TWW…**

**(Here's hoping that QuickEdit doesn't destroy the formatting!)**

Frodo Baggins dreamed that his face and hands were pressed flat against a pane of chilled glass. The air around him was cold enough to numb his fingers and nose, so cold that his breath fogged before his eyes.A terrible dread clenched round his heart, though he knew not from whence it came. He felt that he should run, but when he tried to move, he found that he could scarcely feel his limbs.

Beyond the glass lay a fathomless black maw, one that devoured all light and warmth. At this, the frightened hobbit shut his eyes, for the longer he gazed upon the gaping void beyond the glass, the more he felt that he would be hurled into it, and be lost for all time. He wanted to weep for the terror in his heart, but no tears would come, and nary a moan or whisper would issue from lips gone cold as stone…

Frodo woke with a gasp, and lay still for many long minutes as his heart slowed its thunderous pace. He lay prone upon a smooth, cold floor of solid black hue. As in the dream, his hands and face were numb with the chill, but he quickly discovered that he could move again, and after some moments he lifted his head and stared about in amazement. He was imprisoned within a soaring, high-ceilinged chamber that was at once grand and horrifying—grand, for its majestic scale and piercing austerity; horrifying, for its walls were crafted of a tortured, deeply creviced black resin of some sort. The bare flooring reflected the harsh light pouring from some unseen source high above.

The hobbit pushed his weary body up and sat for a long moment, shivering with more than the cold. He rubbed at his arms and reached round to pull his cloak tighter around his shivering form; but to his dismay, the cloak and its Elven-crafted clasp were missing. Frodo nearly cried out at this discovery, for the cloak had been a gift of the Lady of Lothlórien, and thus was a rare and precious possession. Too, Sting was gone from his side, and this grieved him deeply as well—it had been Bilbo's gift to him before their parting at Rivendell.

Frodo pressed his hands to his chest, shuddering at the lingering bruises and chill left where the silver wraith had gripped him. He hardly remembered the actual journey, save for fleeting glimpses of the landscape as the horse sprinted over the plains. The memory of cruel claws and a rasping voice, however, would haunt his thoughts for a long time to come, and the deathly still breast to which he'd been clutched had quite frozen him to the bones. His hand moved to his neck, feebly searching for a weight that was not there, and he was scarcely aware of what he was doing until his fingers found naught but his own shirt, the glimmering mithril mail, and the bruised flesh beneath.

The Ring. He had given it into Sam's keeping, he now remembered. Frodo felt that a heavy weight had been lifted from him; yet, as he considered it, he realized that a heavier burden had fallen in its place. He worried for the friends and guardians he'd left behind on the plain. Had he been right to give such a terrible duty over to Sam? Would the younger hobbit indeed be able to carry the vile Thing, or would it devour him and the others whole, as it surely had the power to do?

Frodo slipped his hand into his vest pocket, and breathed a sigh of relief, for the perfect green leaf that had fallen into his boat a mere ten days before was yet folded within. He remembered Aragorn's words to him concerning Lady Elbereth, and was comforted to think that the Lady of the Stars was watching over him, even in such a dark and horrible place as he found himself now. "But please, Lady," he whispered under his breath, "if it is not too much trouble, watch the others even more so than I, for surely they have far greater need now…"

**End of Chapter Twenty-One-and-a-Half. Also known as "The Chapter In Which Absolutely Nothing Happens."**

**Like I said, this is the sorriest excuse for a chapter in the history of TWW. I most humbly apologize for that. I started writing this chapter over a YEAR ago, but my muse suddenly died, and I didn't want to post until I had a proper chapter written…**

**…however, this past weekend I decided to just up and post the blasted thing, in all of its miniature and unfinished glory. Bleh.**

**Hopefully, the full Chapter Twenty-Two will be forthcoming. Patience, young Padawan, patience! **

**Thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around!**


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